Graveyard of dead gods


Here I sit, smoking in the graveyard of dead gods. The uncertainty of his existence have led me to his tomb, where I dig art.

The epitaph on his stone says-
Your search in vain, as I don’t exist.”

This universe is grounded in bountiful dimensions of depth, referred by the countless designations of ultimacy.
Wishing for something unearthly to unfold; the divine depth to insinuate itself into human consciousness.
I dig down deeper..deeper than Darwin; only to find dust.
No remains, no bones, that could possibly hold the guts to create mortal flesh.

Curiosity and iconoclastic impulse.

In his inability to exist I find my existence a myth.

I’ve reached the core and beyond digging, writing sorrow, hollowing the bosom of the depths; only to reach where my roots lie.
I’ve died nights searching for his existence but nothing lead me to him.

My search in vain, as you don’t exist.” says the epitaph.

Here I sit smoking, in the graveyard of dead gods.

Tortured Artist


Clinking of chains, caliber rifles, cold metal of shotgun;
Their only purpose of existence is to cease yours.
Another fatal blow and the red fluid comes oozing out of my mouth;
My once saintlike eyes are now full of sins, commanding haunting glances
Soul hollow, knuckles bloodied and the rattle roar of my broken bones.

All my life I’ve preached words, now I swallow sharp words that cut my throat on the inside like a steel knife
Sore and raw.
I drift away in the haze, hearing the Cadillac screech on the streets, and hymns of surreal church in the melody of hell.
I’ve shunned everyone by myself; never knelt before the god
What do I fear?
Tongue dried and lips parched
“Drinking a lot of water makes you thirsty”
Looking longingly at the gun I whisper to myself-
” Salvation is freedom from something.”
Measured squeeze of trigger followed by a deep breath.
I sin.

So you want to be a writer?


if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.
don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.



Certain feelings were blooming from the decay, and she was stuck in the middle of the storm before she knew the beginning. “Quirk of the fate”, they said; But she considered herself the author of her own fiasco; She fancied things that will probably ruin her at the end; She was different, she found solace in ache.

Drawn towards the fire, this time she walked to the devil; carrying calmness to chaos. Succumbed to the charms, the devil fell for the damsel.

Cataclysm rained. She built her walls high; maybe there was a story behind her guise. She definitely was not afraid of the devil, but maybe haunted by the humans.


But the devil never left , abided by her gravity. He knew she could deny loving him, but can never stop. Hope is a fool’s paradise but then the wonders never cease. The day came when the boundaries grew blur, and she walked towards the devil.She fell on her knees embracing bruises gifted by the gravels. She ached. She bled. She begged. She begged love from the devil.

And I..

I dropped my pen spilling ink on my parchment; buried my face in my pillow and cried out loud; asking the protagonist of my story- “Where were you when she was begging for love from the devil?”


Blood drenched masterpiece


It’s after midnight, as I lie wide awake. My demons are out to play, again;
I try not to cry..failure.
Faded cigarette clumps, empty wine bottles, broken glasses and my canvas;
I hear the violin cry in agony. My soul dancing to the muse of my own tragic symphony.
I hear myself whisper -” No..not again.”
My demons are pushing me and I’m heading towards my horror roots.
Tears, smeared eyeliner, pain and silent cries.
Maybe I should cry for help,
Maybe I should kill myself.”
Gathering all my strength I rise, to fall again. This  time forever.
Broken pieces of glass and my wrist lay neatly slit;
Blood oozing out from my numb capillaries, dripping over the canvas.
I painted it in my favorite crimson shade, alive and dead strokes.
My blood drenched masterpiece.
My artistic soul.

Physical suffering is what I experience while waiting eagerly for the death to approach.
Trying to save my soul I hurt my body. The demons inside are eating everything in my bones. They fancy my soul, they yearn for it.
Death comes slowly ensuing unbearable state of mind.
A shot to head is all it took…
A shot to chase my monsters away.

For the love of a writer

You have galaxies under your skin.” He said, sliding his thumb across my cheek; brushing away the tear I didn’t knew fell.
“Even though I leak so much?” , was all I could respond.

Words are mere a bridge when it comes to expressing. To empty, I have deep oceans of vehemence.


“You my love, paint magic with your touch. I gleam all night in the shade of your body, like a candle burning..melting; pushing and inviting the darkness at the same time.
You paint my body – your canvas with lovely shades and deadly strokes; with your fingerprints everywhere.
Your musk all infused in my breath; I inhale your stardust.
You make me wanna sin. Full of scars, bruises and bite marks; I explore every inch of your body with the same zest.
Next moment, my head buried in your chest and I cry in the shrillest way. Ink runs down the corners of my eyes.
This is what it takes to love a writer. This. “