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My Little Wild Girl!

Stay wild, Stay free

Let no one tell what to be or not to be!  

Be made of fire, be enchanted

Let yourself be the magic that exists, never taken for granted!

Be a myth, a legend, maybe a story untold

Let no one tell you what you may or may not behold!

Be the star and the stargazer, be your own light

Let every ungodly mouth be another reason for all your might!

– Mum (Yashasvi K.)

Sinful Black!

I cannot begin to tell you…
How much I knew
That he & I had allied souls,
Allied in terms of wrath and warmth.
The kind that would come around once,
Once in a gazillion years.
And it dazzled me,
The way we were synced,
Synced without trying.
It was implausible to see,
That every sunset spent together,
The universe would witness two souls,
Turning to the color – sinful black!

The Last Breath!

I can hear you, love, from the contour of that dusk

Do your pretty mental laces still arrest you in the social typecast,

Or have you now tricked your mind into believing, what you must?

Do your mountains still rise in the tragic gloomy nights?

Or your flowers now do not seek that honey-soaked might.

Has your Harley now stopped seeking its Joker?

Or does that wisdom tooth ever tell you, get up and fight!

Oh, tell me the wind still blows in the same direction,

That the lighthouse hasn’t frozen to death!

Let it once again swift pass those shores,

Catch the soul that hasn’t succumbed to its last breath!

The Summer, 2020!

Lying on the white burning surface of the virtual skin,
There she was scanning the mental unorthodox memories of her mind.
For her enlightenment on self love came
On a sunny summer morning of 2020!
But, it came with a clause of a struggles,
Struggles to accept her,
Like the changing seasons of
indifference and warmth,
To scoop her out of a negotiated hell,
The one she later decided to rein in,
And she did, Oh & How!

A Waste!

Sometimes there will be an urge to push it away

Push what you want so bad, away.

Not because now you don’t want it anymore

But because it’s overwhelming.

It’s overwhelming to know you can want something so much, again

An idea of ‘so much’ is scary.

You’ve lost your way and returned surprisingly sane once – from wanting something ‘so much’

So now gambling your sanity over the ‘so much’ feels like a waste.


The wild long battling stare of those eyes, the raspberry sweet sound, but as cold as ice.

The melting slow touch of those fingers through the curves of a heated core, the screams of the want, the madness so gore.

The parallel running lines of the neck with the fingertips, the lenient little peck, the mental precipitation of every little speck.

The right amount of assurance to have it when you want, where you want, so much, like the favorite cushions pinned to the bed as such.

The wicked little smile, the smirk of the Satan, the look, the touch, the last felt breath, the one left slight unshaken

Yearning the same, yet, and more in distress, lying right where you left the undone in a heated mess.


I dropped quick and easy, like a ball of yarn three decades ago
Your shadow has lingered on me since
Your syllables, your voice, like an old audio cassette on loop
Like my favourite soundtrack.
You are the flying, shining, metal hard armour
Wrapped in a heavenly flesh, that once was my abode.
I’ve never once have had a blank static stretch
Your tape reels have been all along in my frames.
I’ll run blindly towards you, rolling down steep slopes
To tell you something, everything, to unwind.
To who you are what, regardless,
You will always be the lamps of my street dark old town


I’m A Postcard!

I remember the first intimate battle of ours, the way you encroached each dark corner.
You ensured the deliberate scars across my silhouette,
Before I entirely surrendered my inhibiting dementia.
To date – you incessantly visit, revisit, the same old hollow tombs and castles of my flesh,
Hasn’t the anonymity of my egoistic calling saturated you enough, yet.
Haven’t the walls, those that have been charged on to, remind you of the massacres we avoided,
Saved so many the wrath that the unison would have bought.
Mad as a hatter, they don’t just say it,
Underneath this life long carpet would stay the mental Voldemorts.
The rear gear of these sweat and fret nights, the ones that I replay in my head
have overshadowed every possible ray of shine for my tomorrow,
Oh such a beautiful wasteland you’ve turned me into…
Worsened my soil to sow,
But turned me into a picture perfect postcard!