Explorer of life | Writer | Poetry-lover | Only Engineer-to-be in a family of four Doctors!

And how alive are you?

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“Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light”
— Dylan Thomas.

One of the biggest questions that have latched onto me for a long time — like most of the people when puberty hits them — has been death. For quite a while, I feared the idea of losing all I have; to be stuck in the darkness away from the colors I was used to seeing. Alone and gloomy.

We call it many names. For a few, it reveals itself as existential crisis and dreading the unknown. For others who can’t…


A poem dedicated to all beautiful mothers out there

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For what she smiles?
And for whom?
I never knew where
She hides her gloom.
Her pain resides
Behind a curtain of smiles —
Her refuge through
All of her trials.

Her love is the actuality
Of love at first sight.
In my monochromatic life,
She exists as a light —
A pure white light that
Fills my world with true color,
While dispersing into a spectrum,
What an act of valor!

A beautiful young soul she is,
Whose delights she attempts to murder.
For when her child is in pain,
She wholly and truly suffers. …


A guide to developing acceptance for being wrong, to be lesser wrong in life

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Did you ever question yourself against your beliefs? The basic principles over which the pillars of your existence stand. The questions sending strong enough shock waves to these pillars — ripping them apart, or baking them with it's immense heat. Have you ever encountered moments like these? If you have, I’m pretty sure you are familiar with this term called "The Paradigm shift".

Facts are facts. Observations are observations. Facts exist with 0% possibility of a contradictory notion whereas observers understand the likelihood of the beliefs springing from their observations to be wrong.

Most people when defining the two make…


He who silently howls

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A baby born — neither ugly nor vile,
Elating the world with his pure bright smile.
Innocence, unworldly to spectators,
Like a rainbow in grey, spreading colors!

Then how dare they utter, "This child is jinxed!",
And the ignorant who’re easily convinced!
For a child, who could not speak well at four,
Is still a frail little child at his core!

How dare they mistreat a flower delicate,
Asking for mercy without wording its request.
For once, look! The innocence in the eyes
Of a child with traits of MacDonald's triad!

Their pain, who've undergone some misfortune. Memories of blood…


Between misery and ecstasy

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So there came a lucky moment when she could see a bit of sky,
From the hole in
the wall of that room, just like a spy.
She was kept there in the dungeon, without knowing why.
And she craved for a way out, after getting rid of all the ties.

Was it the dungeon of sinners? Then why did she have that glance?
Why are others there in this dark place far away from the fence?
Do they not wish to see the light, with their very own lens?
Why do they desire to reside amidst these scary resonances?


A poetic rant

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I walked up to my car, opened the door,
Recoiled in horror when I witnessed a corpse
Drenched in blood, sweat, and disgusting odor
With eyes wide open, gazing through my soul.

PTSD it gifted me, how thankful I am!
Their trivial eye contacts, now gunshot blam.
Surviving this wasn't my only trophy;
Unwelcome stares, people nosy.

Oh yes, I failed my semester exams.
Relish in eyes, hollow consolations.
A walk I remember; my walk home,
Home shall I call it? Or a mere station?

A station that is darkness and misery, Fair share of glamour, glittering money. Huge mills…


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I lived there for two hundred years,
Around me, my friends hanged pears,
On the branches they had, full of leaves,
Those which wanderers tied into sheaves.
That has always been a painful process,
Having them cut away your hands,
Your legs and make you bald from king.
So to relieve this pain, we used to sing.

“The merry lake, the merry sun, That rises alone yet sadness shuns. The snappy wind that brusquely blows, Tripping our dry leaves, as it flows. The peacock who is proud of it’s feathers, Walks amid rows of purple heather. The sad loiterers who’ve…

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