When you lose ‘Hope’.

Dreams are the synonym of hope. When you lose dreams you lose hopes. Hopes are the ‘Reason’ that you have been living for and suddenly the grip is starting to faint. You prefer losing love, money, lust, expertise, and people, but you can’t afford hope. It feels like trauma but you have to baffle. Brimmed heart is seeking for light. In the middle of cynic, you don’t know how to heal on your own because this time healer doesn’t heal. The best thing you can do is just hang in there. Do breathe and give a  fight like hell. Let the pain feel itself, that it has chosen the wrong partner. Embrace the darkness because the ‘Light’ is gonna be poping up soon.


You are site to behold.

You are site to behold. God made you so different among all the women. The lips you got are so rosy, it tastes just like your smell so skinny. The eyes you got are so deep and dreamy, it steals my attention. The curves you carry are so supple it beckons me every time. I like the battle between the gap which your curves make and my futile ego which  never wants any void between our soul while I hug you. The more I feel air the more I suppress. The waist you have I’d love to play on with my fingers. I hate your hair sometimes when it covers your back. Nobody’s allowed to touch it, not even your hair. Your fingers are so yummy, whenever they touche me the undying spark escalates it self. I always crave for the gaze, touch, feel, and the unseen attractive rays which pixilates me.


By complaining, making excuses, grieving always, attempting suicide or spreading loathe, are indeed disgrace of your parents’ values. You weren’t raised to hurl your upbringing. Circumstances and the decisions taken are the lucrative reveller of who you are, and where are you coming from. Don’t devastate your ancestor’s legacy.

An Artist has begun to die

By the day I am being productive, I do obey and follow rules. With the beginning of the night, productive me is going to cease and I do get a semblance of an artist. I am about to commute. Blowing air escalate the inner void and I started to unfold the fold talks about life. Soothing stars, bleeding words, blowing air has always been priority but reality sheds in between. An artist has begun to die.

ये हवाये।

ये भीनी भीनी हवाये, इसे कहदो मुझे इस तरह ना छुए,

कही इश्क़ हो गया तो, तुम रोज़ रोज़ निभा नहीं पाओगे।

Consequences of Being a Writer.

You are constantly bidding for tragedies. Somebody else’s break up is a good news for your writting content. Instead of consoling them, you prefer to peak their emotions through your pen. You don’t want peace in your life, you always want problems, situations, circumstances, so that you can write them down. Breaking up isn’t a bad experience for you, its  just a content gaining experience. You always wanna be around tragedies, bad experiences, failures and pain. These lows give you content. You can sacrifice anything for your content. You choose your pen and paper, over people.You choose ink over any materialistic things. You do not travel for joy, you travel because new experiences help your ink to flow deeper.
No. We aren’t crazy. But we seek them just to motivate other beings, who go through, or are going through, what we have already gone through.

Because sometimes, it’s not possible to explain without experiencing.