I'm slightly hedonistic and writing makes me happy


blow the dust off the cardboard box
rush to rip off the masking tape,
except find the top open all along.

open the box of memories, most
you don’t even remember, most
aren’t even yours to reminisce.

scowl at the kisses never aimed
at you and the pain that was never
shared, felt in secret or in shame.

read all the letters addressed to
no one, or everyone besides you,
that never got to the post office.

the barriers don’t exist anymore,
you can have it all, but only in
the form of trinkets stashed away.

you thought you wanted that but
how wrong you were; now just exist
with the memories of the one you long for.


Opposites attract… trouble

They say opposites attract, and when I think of all those iconic duos (where one is shy, the other is outgoing; one has a personal rain cloud over them and the other is the human embodiment of sunshine) it seems right. They appear to work in tandem; what one lacks, the other makes up for. A constant state of perfect equilibrium,  balance.

What I’ve come to realise is, if you’re opposites, you’re bound to be curious about the other and in turn be interested, but when it comes to the long haul, you’re probably not meant to be. It isn’t the extremes of the spectrum that complete each other, they seem more likely to cancel each other out! I assume that means maintaining a constant state of nothingness. In fact, such a couple would have to work twice as hard to meet at the middle.

The reality of the perfect two™ is that they aren’t opposites at all, they’re more similar than they know; not in their temperaments or attitude, but in their ideals. It comes down to understanding each other and how the other thinks and sees the world. If you both have similar goals in mind and understand each other, then you win a grand prize of happiness. If you’re opposites who think the exact inverse of the other, there’s bound to be a lag in understanding and making amends accordingly (you win -20 hrs from your life in order to get to the same page, but might be worth it ya know.)

Actually, let’s extend that metaphor. A relationship is like a book, if you both start from opposite ends of the book, you’re bound to meet at the middle at some point but you won’t understand the fan theories the other has (and will hence declare them stupid, and they, having seen you starting from the last page have already decided that you’re fucking insane). All you’ll understand is that they have a very different understanding of the same material you read and even if you try very hard to get their point, you won’t be able to. The only thing you’ll end up doing is accepting it as their opinion and attempt to reach a compromise. Compromise… that only leads to bitterness, don’t let the Indian Idea of successful marriages confuse you, repeated compromises from the one that hates confrontation will only lead to bitterness (ps: don’t bend too far or you’ll break). Sometimes being too understanding at your own expense is called being a pushover.

You know what opposites attract? They attract troubles and imbalance. Might be fun and games at first, but let’s see who’s laughing when one half of the see-saw never touches the ground and the other, who’s in control, never gets to take off.

Wow I’m on a roll, the power couple is supposed to be the one on level ground and sharing the weight (read: burden) almost equally and most importantly has the conscience to know how to distribute their time spent up or down. The ones that are truly happy are the ones who not only know what the other wants, but also have the courage to ask and tell them what they want. There should never be any guessing games in communication, help is always given to those who ask for it.

Adults confuse me (whelp, I am one now) but from what i understand, I am blind to subtlety, a strategy many adults use. Passive aggression goes right above my head, and I obviously, actively showcase my aggression. Now, listen closely, for I think I’ve found the secret formula to happiness, a way of identifying your soulmate. After all these years of observation, and an epiphany today,

I know that we should all be with that someone who understands us, who isn’t afraid to question our thought process and doesn’t enable our irrational behaviour. Someone who makes an effort to understand our side of the story but provides the rest so as to end all egocentric ideas, without judgement. Sounds implausible, but it isn’t. We all need someone who stops us from putting our head up our arse and then complain about neck pain. Someone that makes us want to feel like we can improve, who motivates and helps us better ourselves; if we don’t I’m afraid we’ll have to do it all alone [shudders] and all while maintaining an imbalanced act where we stretch and stretch like rubber bands to meet at the middle but never do, only snap.

My far more articulate, sapiosexual pal who prefers girthy books over girls added“Other differences can indeed work in ways of completing each other. Competing ideas within the same framework, sometimes completely opposite but very productive due to being dialectical but mutually understood and both being open to the other in terms of the competing idea of the other.”
[holds microphone] WHAT HE SAID.

I’d like to conclude by saying, this is a working hypothesis you’ll get a card to the wedding in case I’m right (I am, I’ve made friends who complete me, indulge my psyche but call out my nonsense. They love me and I love them, we symbiotically help each other grow. It’s wonderful. None of that immature passive aggressive shit.)

Such a theory cannot be generalised for all, humans are far more complex that adding a touch of my bias due to my experiences can cause it to be an ill fit for most of you. I tend to exaggerate, even if you follow your heart and get with your polar opposite, there’s a good chance you both will work out a way to work together. Just remember that these aren’t the only two variables when it comes to human interaction. You might be opposites, you might be twins intellectually! but what matters is how well you work together and play together, on the see-saw i.e. life.


Lost in the woods

Three witches in the forest of my mind,
cornered me and in my ear they whispered,
“This concoction, my boy, is the one you need.
Don’t question us, nor are we in want of your
answer, your future is to where this will lead.”

Swish and swirl went the pungent contents
of their cauldron, bright green and then red.
With sealed lips I did what they told me to;
the events cast no shadow, am I to blame
for the damage and despair that followed?

My comeuppance arrived in the form of
dark bruises on your arms and your mind.
I’m not unwilling to share the burdens,
For it was my crime and you got the punishment.

Both of us can only hope for a revaluation
Of what we truly deserved, maybe it’s time
I question the alchemy of my potions,
Created by those who fly into the moon;
and cut down the trees that are harbingers of doom.


Staying Afloat

Only pretence can benefit me now;

the denial of my menacing future

allows my chest to rise and fall.

Without this charade, my mind

would be trapped in the web

of perilous thoughts that won’t

permit me to function unerring.

But it’s the malfunctions that

brought me here, to this reality;

playing pretend won’t debug

the code that I executed and

poetry won’t change the fact

that I am my own programmer

that failed to render commands.

And there I go again, blinded

by my past follies, consumed by

want of restart or rewind buttons

that I forget the futility of it all.

Refusal to acknowledge most

of this unsightly machination,

helps me stay autonomous

and mobile, it hinders me

from drowning in the lake

of my own culpability and

destroying my motherboard.


This is me if I can’t be


take a well suited canvas of a choice not yours,
squeeze out a blob of the sky from a tube;
feel the familiarity of your mother’s kind eyes.

Take more and more out till you tremble
with the cold that it leaves behind quietly.
Listen! They teach you how to hold the brush,
and they might tell you what to draw too.

You think carelessly, ‘let me learn and do
as they say and do as they do.’ Biggest
mistake you ever made, you lament years later
when the acrylic has dried and there it lies,
your art, gathering dust above your firm sofa.

You don’t know how to draw without references
or scales and erasers, you wish you could.
Somehow it hurts so much more because
few others rebelled and coloured beyond
the borders and made a beautiful mess.
While you stay inside this cage of conformity.

Now they expect you to do great things, now,
they’ve let go of your hands but your mind
is tied and no one ever taught you how to undo
the knot. All you can do is play the blame game
and wonder why you didn’t throw a tantrum;
why your parents didn’t try to tame you.
Constant, like a drumbeat, these thoughts.


Let’s try something new, it’s time for change.
Pour in a touch of red on the palette, it’s so
warm and inviting! You can feel it melt away
little by little the glacial thoughts in your mind.
Dip your brush in water, mix and mix till
the water turns blue and gets out of your hair.
Your mind is clear, you smear the red around.

For once, you try to make wayward patterns.
You have nothing left to lose, so go to town
with the swirls of red that whisper your name.
They’re passionate and refreshing and
beautiful and aggressively so; they glow like
the moon, the size you were meant to grow.

So you take and take and then some more,
till your canvas is the crime scene it always
felt like, except now it looks it too. You’re
learning to bleed and it hurts much less so,
Than when you were breaking bones, moulding. 

You’re finally doing everything wrong but it’s
all right. They wanted this from you but never
do they preach what they mean. Nothing ever
means what it reads. But now, you know better.

One more enthusiastic stroke, and suddenly
there’s no longer only red. A darker colour
of bitterness and regret has stained your hands.


Madness, madness is what that was, later
you come to realise, when you see the
array of ruined clothes and canvases.

You had scared the others yet again,
but this time for novel reasons that you
still don’t completely understand.

All your mistakes and merits are on display
but no one seems to notice either, turns out.
Everything is as blank as the day you joined,

That fateful class, surrounded by strangers
who grew to be more, but you never did;
White lies, they give you balance, lavender.

You can’t keep staring at the ruins forever,
no one will bother even if you do stop but,
stopping was never an option, was it?

Clear the room, make it as empty as you,
start over, but don’t forget, never forget.
Pick up your paints, and your brushes.

And don’t you ever put them down. Now,
you will use more colours than do exist,
and you will do more than just breathe.

void heart

my heart is void of it’s quadrants, there is just a gaping hole. nothing touches the endocardium, my heart should collapse. but here i am stuffing things into it and hoping i feel complete. it’s like a jigsaw puzzle. and everyday i find a new piece. but what i talk about here is where my heart fits in. it lives in the tiny spaces between reality and pain and guilt. where it can stay safe. and illusioned. temporarily.

tiny loopholes lay

where my heart can be content

just for a jiffy

me, writing a haiku after rejoicing that those RT for luck, ignore for years of bad luck, your family dies and your dog eats their corpses and dies too and the world implodes and you fail have a loophole. If you are made anxious by them, you can RT / share and then immediately delete them. Or well. Acknowledge them. Hence, you’re not ignoring them. There. Problem solved. Or, don’t be an asshole or don’t share them and put others in a place of anxiety and paranoia if you can help it.

happy belated poetry day
talk to me on twitter (@anushwah)


Stop measuring
the circumference of
thighs and using the
same measuring tape
recreationally as a noose
around the neck that
creases, holding up
that massive weight;
no more than the world
rests on those broad
shoulders that don’t fit
beneath any dainty dress.

And the ones that do,
fail to impress whilst
a pile lies untouched,
nibbled on by moths
in closed closet corners.
Take your fingers out,
use them to create!
You must, even though
every thing big and
small that fails to be
a part of the present,
every goal, every dream
begins with a “when”.

Maybe it’s time you
stop making your
dreams contingent.
Maybe you’re too
focused on the wrong
numbers. The clock
is ticking, and all you
do is stare at the scale
in utter dismay. Your
eyes barely stray away,
you’re missing out on
so much. Maybe it is
time to force your head
to look around and find
the beauty you fail to see
within yourself.



The camera roll is filled pictures so blurred
that we can’t tell what in them had occurred.

I refused to delete them because I used to think
of how happy I must’ve been then that I didn’t
even bother to focus and try not to move or blink.
A time when we were too busy making memories
to bother documenting them for centuries to come.

Because a future without you by my side shaking
with giggles into my shoulder ceased to exist.

Then fate cackled and decided to play a game, with
two unsuspecting fellows loosely tied together
by mythical red strings around their fingers ring.
I’m left with empty promises of forever, shaky
pictures, a cadaver and a heart that is singed.

Call off the fancy photographers with their effects,
for I see the world in bokeh when I think of you.

Don’t cry!

So I crafted and drenched
The origami cranes with
Salty tears of heart ache
Till I had no more.

I folded the sheets of my
Textbooks into paper boats,
My worries boarded them
And I let them set sail.

I whipped out my watercolours
And let my anxieties ruin one
Masterpiece after another
Till I fulfilled all of them.

I burnt my book of musings
That never did more than
Amuse me and my troubles;
I took delight in the numbness.

I wipe the whiteboards quickly
Before I can even think of those
Colourful goals and achievements
That are only ever fantasised.

I stow the plastic covered, unopened
Boxes of crayons and dried paints
In a drawer that overflowed with
Wasted dreams, it doesn’t shut.

I stare at documents with one eye
And mandalas with the other,
My right hand colours as my left
Is left on the bundle of hopes.

Now I sit surrounded by my art
But nothing to be remembered
By. Bye-bye. Time to leave.

I was told not to cry
So I crafted, but it would
Appear that I misunderstood.

You can hear my whimpers
In my crafts, begging to be heard
Refusing to budge over and leave.

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