It was never love….

Good bye, yes let it be

Go where you want to go

And it was not nice meeting you

For me though

For you reinforced

My thoughts about men

Fake care, brittle ego

Who loves to berate women

You labeled me with names

Though you didn’t say it aloud

But in your eyes I saw

The suspicions cloud

You didn’t want comparison

And competition you don’t seek

It’s not my fault then

Coz your, not mine, love is weak

You were not second option

You just came late

But this is karma I think

My bloody heartless fate.

You of all, I thought

Would understand my situation

But with me, you too failed

To live upto expectations

I was young and gullible

Fell into his seductive trap

He played with my body

For me love he never had

He broke my heart

You tore into my soul

He hurt me in parts

You annihilated me whole

I was wrong, always wrong

To challenge the wisdom old

There can’t be a woman noble

If she is open and bold.

If Lord Shri Ram can desert

Mata Sita, so upright

How I thought, I’d

Be spared of the plight

He took away my virginity

I’m still alive with that

You just killed my sincerity

I’m as much as dead.

The Paint Brush

As I confessed earlier I have always been a lousy painter though painting as an art always allured me. Being a mechanical engineer, engineering and machine drawings did become part and parcel of my life, yet to draw a straight line even with a ruler remained my one of the biggest nightmare. The untidy smudges, somehow surreptitiously would always find a niche in my drawing sheets, causing an acerbic reaction from the teacher, who never gave me an A+, despite the drawings correct to the T whereas the copycats who would mindlessly, but quite effectively recreated the drawings would get the top honours.
Let bygones be bygones, as neither it affected me them nor it affect me now.
But the matter of fact is that I always rue over the fact that I could never learn nuances of the sketching.
One of the most complex art form, in which the artists dissolve the abstract into tangible and vice versa taking the perfection onto some other realm.
So, all these lengthy talks to introduce the newest addition of contributor to the blog: “the Paint Brush”.
The Paint Brush is a creative writer, with doodling as a hobby, so hereby sharing few of sketches here to complete the introduction.

My Diary or … …..

Do you have a journal which has been a soulmate to you or vice versa…..
Find them in this poem

Oye Scribblers (Readers' Paradise)


Oh ! my dear diary
Where art thou
The quill with ink
Is waiting for you
It might be a thought
Or may be a song
Or my restlessness
Buried for long
You take it all
With no questions asked
And infront of you
I often get unmasked
And now out of sudden
You are nowhere to be seen
Hiding adroitly from my eyes (so) keen
This game of hide and seek
Despairs me a lot
And much more desperately
You are now sought
And an ephinany then strikes
Am I looking at places
When you are inside
Inside me all the time
The lub dub unmistakenly is yours
How foolish I was ofcourse
After those sleepless nights
Last, I’d sleep tight.

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Uneasy, I stood alone
Confounded by the news
Fiddling with numerous words
Didn’t know which to choose

‘t sent a chill through spine
And with panic I shuddered
I rushed quickly to her home
As soon as the news I heard

Then I waited & waited
And it seemed like infinity
Still unable to fathom the reality
With difficulty, kept my sanity

Childhood memories flooded
With pulsating , seething heart
I now knew , how it feels
When our dear ones depart.

While O was getting over
From unsurmountable grief
Good persons are never harmed
Once firm was now a shaken belief

Out from the car
Then she unmounted With a posture upright
A warrior she always was
Again she was, ready for the fight

Though no words were exchanged
In that brief meeting of eyes
Yet behind that steely gaze
Her message I could surmise

No words would now
Could lessen her agonizing grief
And all she wanted now that
In her abilities, everyone should believe

Not a drop of tear
Got past their hideout
The valiant warrior within
Stood alone amidst crowd

A long and tiring battle
She had just lost
And many more were lined up
Not sparing a moment to ponder over thoughts

A diamond chemically equal
To much inferior coal
Attributes its transformation
To years of oppression and toll
A warrior, earlier she was
Now rose to the captain’s rank
Though involununtarily she needs to keep
The soldiers secure in their flank.

The life is never easy
And much more tough it will get.
But it can’t unnerve a Samuri
On target whose eyes are set.

With the shlokas of Geeta
Enlighting her heart
Results will fall in line
If properly, She’d play her part


A poet
You can feel the magic

flowing in the wand

If the quill is in

The poet’s hand
The magic he can weave

With words he can bewitch

An outlet to inner turmoils

Is what he beseech
Yes! He is the salt

Left over of sublimation

And it is also a diamond

Created by years of oppression 
He who writes 

For reasons of his own 

Still could connect 

With people unknown 
If his poem can touch 

People’s nerves and heart 

As a poet, perfectly done 

Is his part 
And to eternity 

His name he has placed 

In his poem he lives 

With words,death, he has aced.

Lets move towards mother nature!

Oye Scribblers (Readers' Paradise)

I had lifted my pen

To write few lines

To talk about nights

And the way sun shines

To write for the rooster
Who crows first without fail
And the intriguing story
Which Sings the nightingale

The long standing bargad
Which has seen it all
Through storms and draughts
Unflinchingly It has stood tall

The hard and firm earth
Beneath our feet
And wide open sky where
Clouds are beating retreat

The blistering heat of summer
And winters brumal cold
I wish it’s intriguing story
In words could be told

And on such a low note
The nature sings it’s song
That before you hear it
To the another world it’s gone

And its most deftly crafted
Arguably the best creation
Is running away from it
Man, nature’s prodigal son

The apathy and greed
Devilishly he has shown
And now above the bridge
Water has flown

And thus the lyrical…

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Why did I became a poet?

Oye Scribblers (Readers' Paradise)

Why did I became a poet

I sometimes muse

Of all the art of expressions

This peculiar one I chose

A wish I was novelist

Could write comedy plays

Or might be a painter

On canvas paint I’d sprayed

For stories are so engrossing

One doesn’t read between lines

And paintings are so abstract

Hides feelings to deeper confines

But poem is a devilish art

For one doesn’t write

It flows straight from heart

Speak, never one might

And thus lay exposed

Various dark emotions

Deeply concealed

And like a surgeon’s knife

Pen have it all quilled

The few poems I wrote

May not be so good

But slough out my feelings

As much as it could

For long , I don’t think

Poems I’d write

As the elixir of youth

Would slowly be dried


This one is one of my favourites  among your poems I have read uptill…

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The Last Samurai 

Oye Scribblers (Readers' Paradise)


Samurais, the warrior clan of Japan, who were believed to be one of the best in their one on one skills and strategies in fighting the war. They were known to kollow strict code of conduct and one of the most debatable practice among them was the practice called ‘Harakiri’, though the term now means suicide, in their times it meant to kill oneself after the defear in the battle field, as for them they prized win and their self respect much more than their own life.
The below poem is a sad and quite a gory one, hence i was quite apprehensive before posting it. Still, the reality of life is that it is not always rosy and cozy, so a grim poem is sometimes needed to sombre mood and prepare for the worst.
So read the poem, try to understand the pshyche of a trodden Hero.

Sitting Alone…

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