Of Love


When they speak, they spout the wonders,

They speak of the magnificence, prattle on about how wonderful it is.

A deadly flame, but whose licks to your flesh rival none

In the morose delight it gives.

I have seen the face of love and survived

I am yet to see these blazes they speak of.

I do not see the beauty, nor the inexpressible joy,

Not even the roses and the sunny days.

The face that I saw,

The face of what you call love,

Is my own face, dulled in passivity,

Staring back at me.

Fickle face with its fickle intentions.

The lure at first was tempting, I agree,

But when I peeled back the layers,

All I could see was the true face.

But look at me now,

I am the broken shards that lay in your path,

But though it tempts me to say I will stay broken,

It is not so.

I have fallen,

But I have the power in me to rise.

One push will not keep me down,

Nor will it weaken my resolve.

I say to love, I am not your slave,

I am mine.

And though my nightmares are yet to be bereft

Of the face I give to the name of love,

I will not be bereft of my freedom.

For it is by falling that you learn to walk,

And I am now prepared to fall again.


Wild Child

And on some days, she is the wild child,
Head held high with pride,
Single eyebrow raised,
Lips twisted in arrogance, even.
Determined to take one last selfie
Of her patiently uncut,
Years-old waist-length hair,
Before chopping it blunt
Just below her chin
With the kitchen scissors

Cutting herself free.


Image not owned by me: Credits: Camille Marie Art. Camarie-art.tumblr.com


I have seen him;
In an old faded photograph,
his laughing face amidst a sea of laughs
looking back through sparkling eyes;
I have seen him.
I have heard his voice;
Through the crackling speakers
Of a decrepit black telephone,
Hidden in a dusty corner of my-our-his room,
Uttering flawless Urdu verses,
Mesmerising, like the sunlight
that caroms off each ripple of the endless river;
I have heard his voice.
I have known him;
In a sketchbook that ended without ending,
Through the eyes of every stranger
who is his friend,
Who speaks incessantly
Of his wild untameable life,
Of how he only knows happiness
In its truest form- as freedom;
I have known him.
I see him now,
In front of me,
As we stand among an overwhelmed rout,
And our eyes meet for the first time,
The Seeker and the Seeked,
But know this,
I have seen him,
I have heard his voice,
I have known him for eons.

Cogitation of a Revolutionary

I am the upstart.
I thought rebellion first,
I questioned what others accepted.
I am ground zero,
From where the red blood started flowing.
I walk in red footprints left behind
By forgotten men and women.
My future is defined
In one of two ways.
If I live,
I shall live free.
If I die,
I shall die
And spark off
A hundred more rebels
Who will, perhaps,
Walk in my bloodied path.


There is a recurring push
From within my chest,
Almost as though my heart
Is trying to break free
Of the skeletal restraints.
The world around me is muted
By the screams of
The beating mass of tissue.
All that I see becomes
Muddled with black.
My fingertips shiver,
Breath flutters,
And a quake runs down my body.
I feel like I am trapped
In a cage of flesh and bones.
The instinct to escape
Overpowers me.



There is a tug of war.
I am being pulled
In two ways.
My dreams have taken hold
Of my semi-opened wings
And pull furiously
In the direction of the sky.
My friendships penetrate my roots
Holding too tight,
Unwilling to let go,
Keeping me with them
For as long as they want me.
I want to cut ties and fly,
It is no question which way
I thirst for.
It is a question, though,
If I have the courage
To break free.



The bird’s point of view
With spirit as my friend,
I see my little city,
My anchor as I journey
To places far away.
It is night,
And it is a daunting thought.
Each little light
That studs the darkness
Like stars on Earth,
Is each a little life,
A beautiful mess
Of little joys, hopes,
Regrets, sorrows,
Little dreams,
Like stars on Earth.



Warning: Mention of explicit drug abuse. The poet discourages any and all types of recreational drugs and their abuse.

The pin pointed hypodermic
Slips into the crease of her elbow,
And the spot stings sharp
Like a dot of pain
In an ocean of restless tension.
The chemical is forced into
The confines of her veins,
Breathing fire into every capillary.
The after-sting
Of the hasty withdrawal
Is overshadowed
By the killing ecstasy
That now resides in her blood,
Slowly killing her each cell.



One of the most beautiful sights
Is to see someone taking steps,
Be they small, tottering, or insignificant,
Towards their own dreams.
The trepidation and anxiety
That dances on their brow
Cannot overshadow
The small curve of excitement on their lips.
In combination with the knowledge
Of the immense courage
They are bound to possess,
This makes one of
The most beautiful sights
You can witness.

-A (@firstdraftpoet on twitter)

First Roadtrip

It isn’t the wind in your hair,
Or the excitement of adventure,
Or the tingle of rebellion,
Or even the first thrills of adulthood
That puts you in that sweet high.
It is the blank feeling
Of a one-eighty night
Spotted with stars and embellished with the moon,
And the prospect of content friendship,
Of living under the sky,
Of spending a soul-defining moment
With the people who know you too well.
For one moment, like they say,
We will be boundless.

-A (@firstdraftpoet on twitter)