I'm slightly hedonistic and writing makes me happy

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 her arms and her mind.
I’m not unwilling to share the burdens,
For it was my crime and she 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.


Shards of glass bangles scattered on the floor,

casting vibrant reflections that dance with the sun.

Heaps of ball pens thrown carelessly in the bins,

some chewed up, with empty refills and some not.

Torn gift wrapping paper that lays under the tree,

still waiting to be picked up, folded and hoarded.

Broken photo frames and faded pictures, and

heedless intentions to buy glue and restore them.

Dolls, monster trucks, hotwheels and play doh,

all sealed in a box addressed to the orphanage.

Tea and coffee stained mugs lined up on the

wet kitchen counter, waiting to be washed up.

Old shirts, pants and dresses with holes in them,

ones that didn’t get a stitch in time, now need nine.

Newspaper bundles and textbooks of known arts,

resold to those who can magically revive them.

Broken bones and cuts, that the body mends,

colourful signed casts and kissed silver scars.

Novel, tangible objects of all shapes and sizes,

simply added to cart at the snap of our fingers.

But the lessons learnt, that are burnt into our brain

are here to stay, our memories are irreplaceable.


daily prompt



Everyone hated them and for good reason,

the last bouquet on sale this season.

They lay there patiently on the stand

waiting to be picked up and smelled.

Innocent goals, only to spread cheer and

sweet scents in the air and possibly

the lungs of someone treasured.

But to everyone else they were not

memories of silly childhood rhymes,

they didn’t taste of happiness sought

by painters of the (g)olden times.

All they seem to do, is leave a bitter

taste in the mouths hoping for

someone’s lips to meet theirs.

But god help me, I love them so

because when you buy them for me,

it’s out of love deeper than any sea.

Sweeter than red, warmer than the stars

that you put up in my skies, they are. So

I will hold this bouquet of yellow flowers

close to my chest, and breathe for now.

yellow yellow dirty fellow sitting on a buffalo

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