Unfound Artists

Pause.

Rewind.

Think.

Poem: How Will This End.

You came and then you went Leaving my heart torn apart and ripped I went through anger and despair All because you were no longer there I hated you but wanted you still To have you with me forever, I will I wanted you to suffer and feel the pain that I felt I had no way to heal, those were the cards that were dealt So, I go deep into the pits of hell, it is so real On my knees, I plead with a…

Fiction: Against the Waves.

While I was helping one of my co-workers, Rosie, my manager, started growling at me. “Why are you spending so much time with her? Are you trying to bust the budget for this job?” “I’m just trying to help her find the files she needs to proof a job,” I explained. After all, my co-worker Sue had just started the day before, so she needed help navigating our very tangled network. However, Rosie…

The wind doesn’t speak of peace anymore It carries the poison all around Chinars have lost their shadows these days The taste of the air is lost somewhere I wonder; Is this my home? Where I’ve lived my years back then, This can’t be the paradise The poet spoke of! Can this be the valley of saint’s, i wonder Deserted are the gardens, That once bloomed! Graves have took all over the place The…

I was dancing as a zephyr and pleased with all the finesse and ease.

Carried the whole love inside with resplendent spectrum, of colours and light.

But then someone patted my spine and said, hey, shall we play? Give and Take like a benevolent Spirit.

I replied – lets play Only if your benevolence is willing to stay. But to my dismay, You played “Break and Betray’.

I still chose LOVE and Laughter

Poem: The gift of seperation

Remember that pot acquiring its shape, kissing hands counted four Fire escaped in search of light, never seen a mirror before.

They could see it more than us, always envied our love Silent cracks and choked names, heat of then, call of now.

Leaving your grip, you still and quiet, sniffing memories of cold heart Cloudy exile dragged my existence, playing mirage of sure apart.

A starling image…

Poem: Her Eternal Pain.

The pain I’m, drowning in, handling the worse, breathe in thicker than this–my skin– the clock is ticking , will I win?

Red road patterns, drawn on me, firework–blisters, blown on me are now falling apart–my will– the clock is ticking, will I win?

Virtual world be, perfect then, real me would, echo then stronger than all–my soul– the clock is ticking, will I win?

Could all I do; stay calm, everyth…

Flash Fiction: Elevator Pitch.

Troy stepped into a crowded elevator on the way up to his apartment. It was the type of “crowded” where you don’t even have enough room to reach into your pockets to grab your headphones. Troy would’ve usually waited for the next round because he wasn’t a huge fan of the awkward silence that tends to arise in elevators, but he was really anxious to get home and plop into bed.

It’d been a weird…

Poem: To my muse.

To my muse I come silent Putting to grave roaring storms violent In inked words the thoughts yell Here me demons and angels unshackled dwell

A world where the dusky sun is crowned I soar among thousand dusks for a dawn to be found Belief betrayed and peace gets in fray Lift stooped hope, to pray Though filthy vision caged is behind bars Soul mine calls for the owner of the stars It’s known he…

To you I’m writing now, not after a decade after all. A precious time has passed since the setting of that sun, leaving behind the shade of dullness and probably an eternal scar.

Longing since then in those empty lanes in search of peace you left behind in those smiles and faded dry eyes. I lost my track a hundred times only to choose the right one to you, Yet again and again i give a new start

I…

They soothed him with words of flattery, and they gave him hope—the two traps into which people the world over will always fall.

Voltaire

As aspiring poets in the 19th century, the Brontë sisters were told that their writing showed talent, but they shouldn’t pursue it because after all, they were women. Despite that, Brontë sisters Charlotte, Emily and Anne—all went on to became famous authors after publishing their stories and poetry under men’s names. Charlotte, the oldest of the three, was listed as author Currer Bell on her…

Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion.

Jane Austin