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



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

If I Smile Like An Idiot…. Will You Know It?

On the boxes of solemn lyrics

I need to halt that beating set

what if he hums my old la la la

and my beat slips out of the rhythm?

Next morning, I could pretend 

doze off silently on his arm pillow

clutch the freaking heart with the palm

and bribe it for the smile that I saved the last night


Once, they accused me of the tragic ending

whether I have been through

But, Trust me, I am twist-teller

I can thrive your lies and retell on your best

Now, he knows of the metaphor 

I have pickpocketed from his zipped drums

Oh! I must have been cautious

all those years where I dug and eclipsed it


Thus, he brags on my chin, lifting it

I can sniff on the breakfast that he just devoured

and I skipped for the saturated thumps I had

A while, on the crossed breath

I blame it on the air we exchanged

He chuckles on the reason I poured out,

then says,

If I Smile Like An Idiot, Will You Know It?

From The Whisper Of Street

Yesterday we were diving in liquor.. humming ‘drunk in love’
You drew white circle and named it moon for me
When u sipped your last drop..I fell for your Adam’s Apple

The glasses we used to drank is broken
I glued it, taped it..still scars there’s been

You got the new glasses from market
I heard from the whisper of the street
As I wait with my high heels on
She snaps a peck on yours of tons
As I heard from whisper of street


When he hates poetry

He laments disguised words in a morning newspaper. So, he often rolls them up and bounces into grounded basket. And I had made my mind to paste my piece of paper underneath bed sheets or kitchen tunnel, he would never turned in for. I guess, my pen can live without ink.

When he is into uncomplicated news stories, I must find shovel and draw a hollow near his home. I know, he is slow, even with simple stories. Sigh! I can take my things slow too. Poor at drawing- I think I won’t match an exact circular hollow, an ink is thinking off it. However, it must rest in there, warming up with heaps of mud, shovel scattered.

He is calling me. Perhaps, he is finished with morning read.

“where were you?” he sniffs around and leans closer to me “you smell like an ink. I had never thought if anyone could  leave impression of ink and you do.”

“I was preparing tea, but I could not figure out where the packet of sugar was. I ended up checking it store room.  You know what that room smells like?” Is that a best lie I could come with?

“I know” he grins and kisses my forehead. ” You might have encountered a bottle of ink in one of your drawer”

“How.. do you? know?” I stammer on his truth

“Cause, you always smell like this” he cuffs his arms behind my back and sniffs closely on my neck.”I am hooked to it” he inhales again.

“I thought you hate it” he is way too warm there.

“I do” I can feel his lips protruding on my shoulder.






Bottom to Top; I’m yours?

On that cloudy shower, you stuck lad

your shoe fell in love while your foot claps with mud

barefooted guy on a lane that’s never straight

I’m on the edge of  jeans, please fall for me at the first sight


wooden bench, there you go

are you setting a date on umbrella tree

I need to suspend and roll over sitting knees

if he stands, I am dead spat on the brownies

Whoa! I must have incarnated as Olympic ace

now I’m lodging on your broad grace

I sniff on your grimace wrapped up in a hair

sweat perpendicular to the drops of rain

resembles a hiding cave at uninviting mass

Can I blow my breeze to shine you up?

Do not stood me up, I’ll fall mercilessly


oh! my back hurts.

and he has gone

swirling from bottom to top

I’m yours?

Everybody doubt that

because I am a Pest ( Daily prompt)