Why do we write?

Have you ever wondered,

Why people choose writing as a form of expression?

Because the rules cease to exist

In those lands

Where people have believed

A pen is mightier than the sword.



Only if you knew,
The depth of my soul

Then you would know,

The world does not scare me

Words do.

Beautiful or Pretty

Am I beautiful?
or just pretty?
Beautiful, like those snow clad mountains in the distance
And the stream that flows by!
Or, Pretty? The kind where you see the endless sky
In shades of blue and white
And you sigh!
"Pretty, isn't it?"
Would I be the one
with whom you stay for a day and live
Live, like it is your forever.
And at the end you would say
Gasping for breath,
"Beautiful, beautiful, is all I have to say"
Or, Would I be the one,
With whom you spend
Nits and bits of your life?
Here and there we wander,
Finding pleasures in pieces of wonder
Having a Pretty life!


Love is Death.

The most dangerous form of self destruction.

Happily you walk towards your own grave,

Enjoying every minute of the journey.

Love is, will always be, the most preferred way of self destruction.

Being killed by the things and people you are made of.

With smile on your lips and peace written all over your face,

Poisoned by the sweet words poured into our hearts

Now and again!


You exist,
Not in my thoughts,
But in the spaces that remain
Between the breaths.
Between the moments when you take a sigh of relief,
not between those conversations
but in the leftovers that corrupt my brain.

A reminiscent from the past: 21st

Two hearts,

Busy minds,

Nothing to talk about.

Waiting for the clocks to tick!

To hear the bells toll 12,

On this day,

They knew, for the rest of their time

That would be it;

With nothing new,

They decide to be there

For eachother

In the little windows they get from their life.

They decided to be each other’s

Divided attention.

Who Said That Love Was Fire?

Who said that love was fire?
I know that love is ash.
It is the thing which remains
When the fire is spent,
The holy essence of experience.

Note: This a beautiful poem by Patience Worth also known as Pearl Curran

Week: 2, Location: Office

Have you ever written and rewritten and then rewritten something because you felt so drained and could not get anything that was satisfactory? Your juices do not flow and then you are so dried up that writing even a single sentence is a task that you would want to procrastinate.

Guess what?

This is one such post.

Productivity killed. Monotonous work life does that to people. 😛

Disclaimer: This post is only intended for fun and does not mean to harm the sentiments of any individual totally in awe of their work life. The author had a lousy day as her boss was stuck with work and she had nothing to do, because duh! Intern. She is just boggled by the creativity present in her surrounding because she is working at a place which is considered to be as the pool of creative people: Advertisement Company. She just wants to look at the cute little office walls and frames and apparently she is not intrigued by Android Studio today. Good day, folks!  


I am made of Madness,

Chaos flows through me

Broken and Stitched

Nothing is more beautiful

than a scarred soul

with a bandaged hope!

I am broken and you are stitched.