How do I find time?

I left it under the potted plant

Where my neighbor bends upon to smell a flower

And asks me about the full moon. 

He says 

There is glory in the gardens of the others

But here, the slugs ate away all the bloom

And made it seven words shorter

From a love poem

You were willing to write. 

I fight the winds

And grasp his hand

I tell him, I am a gardener of words

–Often other than the unkempt personal pronouns–

I collate 

A bag of off-shoots

Till they look like they have eaten time 

Over which my neighbor once bent upon, sorry,

Right before I unmade him

And went to sleep. 

Image source: hiveminer



There is benign strength 

In my poet’s legs

To keep my words

From falling off in a dishonest dance routine

Noted among people

Who even served worms 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               


I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.         

Then in death

There is always a radioactivity. 

The charged words bump against the glass

Like a moth or a housefly

Like a lover or a businessman 

And at last

The mind breaks with its own ambition. 

Little Wild Child

Little wild child

Sits on the swing

And gently rocks himself.


Back and forth—

The words won’t spill out

He thought,

It is but wasteful devouring of air and soil.

Was he you or were you he?

This cruel little third person–

He sees the little child swing

And then,

He sees him seeing the little child swing

Back and forth—


Back and forth—

I’m sawn

I thought I was moving

But the moment you saw me,

I knew I had to eat everything

I had to stop,

running after you…

Back and forth—


I guess,

It is the Black-hole paradox.


*Black hole paradox refers to the quantum physics theory which speculates that in a black hole, all physical states dissolve into one. I don’t particularly like physics, but then, who doesn’t like mysterious space theories.

No man’s land


I sat under the tree
I dripped of words, bled myself dry
Nothing came close
Nothing came to pry

Two eyes, seven hearts
Hands to hold 
No more skin to give
They asked me, 'O goddess under the tree
Where is thy lord? Where is thy almighty?
Mine stands here, Mine loves me.
Where is this tree? Where is this tree?'

My skin chaffed to my bones
I wear my silken night oak
White strands 
Blue strands
I said to her, 
look ye to the sky
No star am I
When the night closes in,
I slip under my own kin
I am my home
I am my own skin

This lord you seek,
has have had a
gloomy goddess 
Neither above, neither below
but within him
within him

But I stand here alone,
Fully indulged. 

Muse of the strange beings

*This poem was written under the prompt: My Quiet place. My Quiet place of muse is however, not very quiet.

I have certain qualms that surround me,
But the sea-green tides today
are not divulging
but low.

I have passions for tumultuous storms
That goes unrequited in the summer’s bowers
But they seem to be bathing under the symmetrical roofs
The flashes of one distant star, gliding past their morrows
And yet here I am strange
for finding a heart in the dilemmas of the off-seasons,
that left me behind a traveler, precipitated
who seek towards some
ever-present tornadoes.

I have my name upon a tree
And it gave me no solace at all
Because I can only dance for the rains
And by paying my subtle abode, above
a call.


© Priyanka, All rights reserved.

The fault in our stars


Just so you know, this is not a book review. I mean, I am nobody to judge books. Also if you find my language Greenish (John Green-Greenish) it is because I finished this book yesterday and the voice it left inside my head is still dictating me right now. So, I might as well use it productively? Huh? I don’t know.

This is a shoulder-to-cry-on journal if you ask me, because you know, you would never be over with this feeling whenever you would look back at the memories, this book gave you.

But let me applaud the genius of this guy, first.

Meanwhile, this guy is also clapping in my next tab.

And Green deserves it all.

Are you sometimes sad by a book and then in hope, try to make yourself cheerful again by finding yourself a good comedy to get over it. But in this case, you just can’t. Why? WHY, YOU SAY?

Because the comical wit and the tragedy of this book is so intricately conjugated that whenever I have an impulse to laugh
(post-reading), I believe I might cry as well. And it is not even about crying. The thing it stirred inside all of us– is a beast of unrequited qualms. Excuse, my poetic notions but you gotta accept it, all of his ideas are difficult to gulp down and a are not easily forgotten by changing the genre and by this, I mean, shifting to other novels with lesser painful potentials. And I don’t even know what genre it was. Cry-till-you-die? Universe-does-not-notice-tragedy? Teenage-death-philosophy might do it certainly. Or my favorite: O-Hell-it-hurts genre.

It will haunt you whenever you see any person in your books dying. And I might as well say that It would haunt you to search Something with a capital S in your life because yeah baby, that is how it is, apart from all metaphorical resonance and shit, we all might be buried under the same stones like stock storage kinda thing. Ordinary? A Pity in the eyes of people who think they know you. After-all the funeral wishes on your wall are derived from the same unknown people who leaves wishes on your “Happy birthday”.

Oh god, what did you do to me, Green?

I just couldn’t believe Augustus was dead. And I wasn’t even crying my eyes out. It became extremely suffocating. Why? Because their is a lesson in this too. Their were small intervals reserved for crying but in the end it never gave me full blown grenade, I felt. And I couldn’t let go. I was expectant. That certainly dug my grave.

For I was expectant that they would somehow, fulfill his wish to become extraordinary. May be in the form of Peter dedicating his sequel to Augustus or Augustus coming up with a sequel, better than Peter Van. But eventually, I could see the truth, this was not going to be the case.

And this ended my desire to want more from this book. Of-course, I cried. Because this is how these genius people roll. I am not crying at narrator’s loss or anything but I am crying in some hope to comfort Waters. To hug him perhaps, to tell him that such people are not ordinary and are extremely rare. Trust the fanbrigade.

Nevertheless, Augustus died ordinary. You know that ordinary and illness stuff he talked about. It still pinches me I know, but what can we do after all.

And who is even that guy playing Waters? Seriously? No justice.

If you think, it is because I do not find him a hot bod. Ugh to you.

Hella, his smile doesn’t even reach his eyes and you think he can play Augustus. The Augustus Waters?

Well, I am not here to criticize anyone and wouldn’t even brag how I imagined him. Because I did not imagined him. To me, he was in some third space where things can somehow work out without a face and hot bod and you can perhaps, feel the personality rather than seeing them.

Aren’t books fantabulous?

Anyhow, I did imagined Hazel as Jennifer Lawrence.


Sue me.









The Wanderer

The chariot is a hungry beast
Like the last ghost of Dickens
Assembling itself like a platoon
Growling out, muffled air.

The ravages upon a beaten road
If the havoc of rain was any less
To match the grave thunders
Mourning the unknowns, he treads.

Myth of worm-eaten parchments
or the spine-chiller of campfire nights
Haunting the hour of 4 a.m.
but never a legend to be revived.

You remind me of a ghost sailor, I say
or perhaps, the myth of one headless rider
And while the freedom came to these,
You became that never-ceasing dream.

His prey is a dimension and not personas,
For they say he thaws all the glass as he treads
It is curious for now my heart skipped a thump
when I noticed all our panes, Dangling but in,

Author notes

Myth I created on my own- The chariot of a spirit that is cursed to travel around whole earth, sharp at 4 a.m.


  • © Priyanka, All rights reserved.


I try to hear your voice.

It is hidden under my feet,
Or it just grumbles a lot like our old t.v. set
Some chitter-chatter and false nonsense

It says gibberish like Alice is lost and searching for a fellow
and yet nothing would bear a sign of ‘life’ in your throat
nor in your eyes or that heart at least
Or your stupid head utmost

I am not forcing you to climb above
But I wish to throw you down the abyss, sometimes
It would be silence and just gurgling peace
And only then you would realize, morbidity is crueler than me.

I try to find your voice
It is a mysterious source of a failing adventure,
A strange torture with time
But you know what darling?
You have your stubbornness, inherited.
Some say you are a mountain in disguise
Utter rock or scabbard for bones
Yet, I promise, If I could punch some more walls
I will find the source.

I will find the source.




A satire on parents who try to “fix” their children. In order to find their right source.

Prompt: Source of a river and your own interpretation to it.