Half past midnight

I shouldn’t have watched those horror movies, while my gloves were on the scant of creepy nails. The closer my hands, nearer were the horrible graphics of Asian curse. If only I had nailcutter. I wish I could switch on the lights. I meant, if I could turn on my guts. Everything is holy scary till I won’t be able to summon morning rays.

Wait why my nails are bleaming? The creepy ones. Ah! I knew..I should stop enlightening my horror scraps. Otherwise, I would be jotting of cupid on the basement of betrayal. It’s only a jest


My Leftover Cookies


I forgot buttoning up your disclosures

as I ran on those crunched hurdles

If only you had cupped off your hands

I could have swept off the crumbled shatters

and placed it on the vacant thrones

But, they aren’t used to embracing pieces

they are always into plushes

You and I have empty pockets

And the jar has leftover cookies

what shall we had tomorrow mornings

if the jar secured saturated airbags

it’s the only nose, weak in knees

other, evenings, we had drumming bellies

They shall dance to our rhythms

Because, they had always been the mockery nuggets


Travel Diaries: Chapter 3

Winter charms had been hitting at the Kathmandu. So, we graced something warm across the hill of Jorpati, Krishna Mandir (Temple), only one of us had heard of.  The faint sunlight followed us on the graveled roads along the Gothatar. And the edges drew the lines of houses when we drove toward the destination.

As per the instruction of pedestrian, we led to the holy grail of Krishna, eventually. It’s where he dwells in tranquility. So exquisite and enthralling at the same time.


When the halo of beauty coincides the ancient tales, the duo retains cultural doctrines among the devotees. 


If the dark shade invades in, we are gearing our luminescence, in case. (PS: Taking photographs inside the temple is prohibited)


I am a chocolate dipped in the illustrator’s hemisphere. Their pupils dilate, as I boast my embroideries here. ” It does suit me, doesn’t it?” I ask them every time. 

Picture Credit: Someone who secures his grin all the time after pulling my leg and is familiar with the sense of photography than me.


When He Fries My Heart

On a queue, I wonder if else drum the circulation

I could still love his prickling beard

Now the lane connects closer to the flames

Hence, the peak of my feet nail trips on him

He is on the pools of snow, while I shall bribe the sun

His smile butter me up on an oil

It taste numb yet too complete

It’s his hand stirring the selfless drools

I thought I’m breathing in soils of his arms

How does that ruins of skeleton trap carelessness?

I wished If I had disowned frying pan, oil and that flame.


“What?” Their reaction though;


1: Shall we draw a curtain?

2: nah! that look is enough

1: Am I scary? are you telling me that I look scary? huh?

2: No..No! I meant You act well. you are pretending to be scary. And we have scared her though.

1: Do you know what? you should stop an act like human. Do not flatter me. Once, they butter their innocence, you shall glide your blackey wings on the blues.

Because He says I stink

And the tarts continued to scatter
one, on the right corner
where, I had plucked up thorns
mustered up earthy lime
nailed down my own beat
if it drummed again
I swore to revive
but it sloped on the next corner

next, on the left corner
lights flickered upon
I can’t recall what is tucked up there
I can smell the leftover vows
stinking at its best
must fetch on the beat
and tally up within me

Almost obtuse sight
heard a right and left corner high fives
I pinned down luck on the palm
flipped it over leftovers
and I found my beat overlapped
within the ruins of thorns
I thought I puked it in trash
leaped under the skin
jolted down the thoughts
I’m still a partner with leftovers vows

because he says I stink