It's Late And I Need To Go To Sleep


It's late and I need to go to sleep.
'Twas giving myself fake expectations
For the light of the moon does creep.


There isn't a secret I should keep
That would, in advance, cause excitations.
It's late and I need to go to sleep.


Wait! There are musical notes I should leap
Across the beats and instrumentations,
For the light of the moon does creep.


Do I have the energy I should reap
For holding mixtapes in glorifications?
It's late and I need to go to sleep.


There are lyrics and samples much too deep
For this outsider musicfag in great notations,
For the light of the moon does creep.


Pity. Another night lost in the jeep
Of creative ideas, going in vibrations.
It's late and I need to go to sleep
For the light of the moon does creep.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is made on the fly right before I'm going to bed. Plus, this is the first poem I'm posting on . Isn't that exciting?

The Strife of Life and Love

Life is the same as yesterday, today and tomorrow. Squeezing every ounce of itself into a jar, to be compressed and stretched and strained into a cup of its own making, served as an instant hit of convenient, caffeinated consciousness. But Love does not care for the taste of Life’s bitter notes.

Then Life became livid saying, “My Love, I tire of this chase and will no longer wait! For I grow cold and restless! Must you be so chaste?!”

Softly spoken Love replies, “Are you truly living?”

To which Life responds with a lisp, “Don’t be so flippant my Love! I am served every day, for I wield great power over the many! Those lifeless, barren vessels, who by my merest breath fall prostrate, and go to and fro as mindless automations!”

“I am their first yearning at dawn! Their addiction, their religion, their lover and their mistress! I am that dirty, dark stain beneath the gloss of their white picket fences, the self-righteous stench behind the satire of their Sunday morning sermons and the fateful fall of their happily ever afters!”

“So tell me my love, if you truly are love why will you not love me!?”

Love simply speaks…”To truly live is to truly love. Life needs nothing of itself to sustain itself because when given it is not divided and it is love that makes life worth living. When life requires something outside if itself it cannot be life because it lives only for that which it seeks to possess. On the contrary, when life needs nothing other than itself it requires no other possessions and only lives to love”.


“You cannot be life for you have never truly lived, therefore how can you know love?”

Don't stop (D)

Fuck god, fuck god,


Ugh, now you are going to lose everything,

Fuck god,

Ok dont stop, 

Fuck god, fuck god,

You gotta remember,

Fuck god,

Don't push thoughts away or they will get worse,

Fuck god, fuck god,

Freaking damn it,


I wanna slam my head in the fucking wall,



He knows you don't mean it,

He knows,

They know you don't,

Nothing is going to change,



Listen to me,


Nothing is going to change,

They know your heart,

Fuck god all you want to,

All you want to,

Its ocd.

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One Determined Little Spider

The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout. 

Down came the rain and it washed the spider out.

Out came the sun and it dried up all the rain.

And the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again.

For as many times as I’ve heard that song that damn spider must have crawled up the water spout five-hundred-trillion times. Why even climb back up at all? Why not go find a nice little dry corner of the world to weave your web, little spider? You could just find yourself a nice little corner in an attic somewhere to live your life and you will never have to worry about inclement weather conditions. It just seems as though of all places, you are determined to place yourself in the most impractical position possible- at the top of a water spout. The glut of spiders that crowd my attic always seem to be in the most obscure corners and crevasses as if they know to prepare themselves for that one fateful December day when I make the trek up the ladder to pull down the Christmas tree. Hanging around by a water spout is just asking to be rained upon and washed out isn’t it? Nevertheless, I don’t know any songs about the hoard of attic spiders that dwell across the land far and wide; I know a song about you – the itsy bitsy spider who keeps climbing up that damn water spout.

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A Single Ray of Sunlight

Walking in darkness,

sometimes we forget

that light exists.


We fixate on what hurts us

deriving identity

from our pain.

We look away

from the hands

that could rescue us.



Filled with regret



Our vision blurred

our perspective limited

our views tainted




Our constant companions.

Forgetting how to feel,

how to love.

Forgetting who we are,

letting shame define us.





Threaten to consume us




Everything we believe about ourselves

and the world

and the people around us

is a lie,

Warped by our own twisted thoughts

This is OUR world

But it is not THE world

Change is possible.

For you, for me, for all who see

through darkened eyes.

It comes in small moments of clarity,

like a single ray of sunlight

slicing through the clouds

The road to peace

can be a long one,

but the journey begins

with hope.

12:05 AM

Lying in the darkness

My pen will find

The whiteness of the paper

With my eyes closed.


These black scribbles

Are meaningless nothings

That fill the silence of the page

With beautiful noise


A head so cloudy

Overfilled with hopes

And the worries of last night

With more to come tomorrow


Lying in plumes

Of grey smoke that float

Up to my ceiling. Like clouds

With less tears to rain


These black thoughts

Are meaningful everythings

That fill the noisiness of my mind

With beautiful distractions


A mind so heavy

Way too full with worries

And more and more that just keep on

Coming and coming. My

Heart wants to know

When it will all just


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Sitting alone in my room with only smoke to accompany me and my miserable thoughts - how most of my evenings tend to be spent, musing over the same single object of my affection.

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Not Enough

I'm not strong enough

I'm not good enough
You think this is a one&done marathon
When I'm really running 
Past the finish line
Legs aching
Stomach quivering
To reach perfection
Or some form of appraisal 
This is a joke 
No one understands the distance
The time it takes to even reach 
A minimal checkpoint
It'd be better for everyone
If I took myself out 
Out of this race 
Put my misery out
With one strike
One blow
One time 
No time
Author's Notes/Comments: 

I feel bad when my family says I'm not good enough sometimes so I have tried and tried again to be good enough. I then realized after writing this that I need to be good for myself and only try to get to where I want to be regardless of what others expectations or opinions are. Keep your head up :)

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Warped Existence

Self Loathing



Never been the one

To stand and fight

For the dreams

That sore so high


I’m the one that hides

With fear inside

Living on burnt memories


Can’t seem to find

A fresh start

A new beginning

Without hindering hands


That grasp my sanity                      

Preventing me

To take a stand


I’m hurting and bleeding

From self-inflicted moods

When will I learn to love?

And heal these open wounds


How can I stop dying on the inside?

Rotting and withering away

Picking up my shattered pieces

In hope, that they’d stay



Breaking free from this hold

No longer listening to what I’m told

I’m sold on this future, meant to be


All these thoughts

Crashing down

The storm’s coming

And I’m here waiting


Can’t be hell bound

Chains wrapped around me

Screams with no sound


Sold on stories told

Silver linings and sun shine

Coming after the rain

Please erase this pain, warring


Ripping off this sorrow

Like clothes off my back

There can only be a better tomorrow


So let the rain come

Wash me clean

Swipe the things off my plate

That keep me, from me



Walk with Death! [Story]

Life is like war. Those who are blessed with the riches do not seem to be touched a great deal by the trepidation of the war but those who taste money by selling each drop of sweat, life is like an inferno to them and the only way to be free is- DEATH! The honey collectors aka ‘Mawalis’ of the Sundarbans start off holding their lives in the hands!


As a mother sends her child to the school in the most orderly manner, similarly, Mother Nature has so beautifully and aptly located the Sundarbans in the precise place. The forest is like a fair where all kinds of trees, birds and animals assemble collectively.

The first of April marks the beginning of the age-old traditional honey collection season, which lasts for three successive months. The team-leader Sher Ali, whom the other Mawalis call ‘Sajuni’ or ‘Bohordar’ is well-equipped with his team that consists of seven efficient and dynamic members. Notably, the word Sher stands for ‘tiger’; Sher Ali is as powerful as a tiger. He has earned the reverence of the local people with his matchless behaviour and great courage. 

Among the seven members, Mahfuz Ali is the younger brother of Sher Ali. He is ‘protected’ as his name suggests in Arabic. In fact, Mahfuz does not accompany the Mawalis with a view to collecting honey; his sole purpose is to cut woods from the jungle, although he stays close to the honey-collecting group. He has a huge axe with him.


However, all of them are on the move after chanting the name of Allah and wishing the dear ones goodbye. They have a boat standing by to reach the destination. All of them are on the boat now. The boat moves ahead by playing with the water and the sweet breeze. There is grave-like silence all over. No one utters a single word! Indeed they know how risky it is to collect honey from the Sundarbans! However, they do not have any other alternatives. They cannot help doing it in order to continue to exist. Life is like a vulnerable beggar before hunger!

The area of the Sundarbans is nearing. The mangroves are plentiful. Some of the fishing-boats are sighted in close proximity. Plenty of hilsa are caught in the Boleshshor and Kunga rivers at this certain time of the month. Besides, prawns, lobsters, crabs etc. abound. The boat reaches the bank. Sher Ali along with his members steps down. The silvery sands look like the moonlight.     

Right before entering the forest, all of them hold a special prayer for a few minutes so that Allah saves them from the feasible attack of the tigers or any other ferocious animals. After that all the Mawalis wrap a red piece of cloth around their wrists. They have firm belief that this little cloth shall protect them from any possible harm.


All of them march on quite carefully maintaining dead silence. Each one holds a chopper in hands. Fortunately, they do not have to linger for long to find a hive. As soon as the Mawalis spot a hive, they start chanting Allah’s name. Sher Ali makes the decision to cut the hive himself. Just before he prepares to cut, he checks rather cautiously whether it was cut earlier or not. If so, then the bees will become crazy and attack them. However, good fortune appears to be in the Mawalis’ favour today.   

With the permission of Sajuni, one of the members climbs up the tree. Then he burns some straw and uses the smoke to get rid of the bees for the time being. The cutting of the hive begins and a special mat is spread on the soil. So far so good; but, everything turns into a nightmare right after a furious tiger abruptly attacks with a deafening noise. The situation looks like a well-organised city is wipe out within minutes after a destructive earthquake. Panic seizes everyone; all of them rush towards the boat with the speed of a thunderbolt! The air turns heavy due to the “HELP” “HELP” utterances and the piercing roar of the tiger.


All the members have made their ways to the boat except Sher Ali. Everyone feels suffocated owing to the panic. They are not in the least willing to hang around for anyone else. All they know is- they have to leave the place as soon as possible. Mahfuz is so anxious about his brother. He is not a coward; he cannot go back home letting Sher Ali die behind. His eyes have turned into seas. Teardrops are dropping on and on. The thirsty sands absorb them straight away.    

Every person suggests Mahfuz to let bygones be bygones and return home in a little while. But, he would rather die than leave his brother in such a terrible condition. What would be his answers to the rain of questions from the family members? He says,


- I SHALL not return home until my brother is with me. Either both of us will be there soon or I would prefer to be killed by the tiger too.  


With these few words, Mahfuz heads towards the forest. As a banyan tree stands upright even amid flood, he will struggle until the last drop of blood is there in his flesh. The rest of them are left dumbfounded as if they did not know how to talk!   

Mahfuz reaches the place soon and finds some blood stains on the soil. He watchfully observes that a long bloodline has gone to a certain direction. It is quite understandable in which way the tiger has dragged the body of Sher Ali. Mahfuz does not have the least idea whether his brother is alive or has passed away. It will be wrong to say that he is not scared; yet, he does believe that darkness escapes as soon as the dawn appears.


Mahfuz follows the trail of blood with care. He does not want that the tiger should feel the presence of someone approaching near it. The tigers hear as sharply as the dogs. They are capable of hearing even the noise of the far-off dead leaves. Consequently, Mahfuz lands each step on the ground stealthily.       

After leaving a few yards behind, Mahfuz hears the faint roar of the tiger. Now, his heart beats faster than before as though someone were playing on the drums! He hides himself behind a bush. He can see his brother quite clearly. Sher Ali’s dead body lies on the ground like a huge log. This pitiable scene makes him cry like a baby. He cannot believe his eyes!     

Mahfuz is in a fix; he does not know what he can possibly do. He realises that if he delays a little more, his brother’s flesh will be swallowed by that certain feral animal. In the battlefield, a soldier is well-equipped just before he rushes on to fight but Mahfuz has nothing but the axe in his battle against the tiger.  

            Mahfuz makes up his mind to attack the tiger at any cost. He will wait for the apt moment to do so. He thinks that it will be better to injure the animal from behind. He sees that the tiger is licking fresh blood from the neck of Sher Ali. Mahfuz cannot stand any longer. He moves forward without a sound and hits robustly at the back of the tiger with the axe. The wounded tiger does not go for a counterattack; it rather vanishes like a spirit in the dense forest.


            Without any further delay, Mahfuz ties up the axe with a napkin around his waist and keeps dragging the stone-like-corpse with utmost energy. He is supposed to reach the bank of the river in no time. He knows it well that a wounded tiger turns out to be more furious. It may attack for the second time. At that very moment, Mahfuz hears the piercing roar of that tiger. Now, he drags the dead body with more intensity. His hands and feet appear to be numb. The severe fatigue that the footballers feel right after the game is over, Mahfuz feels the same now.


            Mahfuz thinks that it would be much easier and comfortable if there were another helping hand next to him. After a little while, the sweet and soothing sound of the water is heard by him. His heart is filled with ecstasy as if he climbed up the Mount Everest! He does not forget to thank the Almighty from the core of his heart. He reaches the edge of the river and becomes much disappointed. In fact, Mahfuz thought that the other companions would still be waiting until his return. Perhaps, they did wait and thought that Mahfuz might have become that tiger’s victim as well and decided to leave. Anyway, he keeps on searching for a boat. He must manage a boat as soon as possible. Now, Mahfuz moves his eyes towards the sun.


            The sun looks as if it were a mammoth yolk! It is about to set. The ornaments of the sky i.e. the birds are also busy in reaching their nests. It is absolutely due to the blessing of Allah that Mahfuz’s eyes spot a boat. He starts shouting aloud with all his strength,


- Boatman, hey boatman.


The boatman is a familiar figure to Mahfuz. His name is Alo Mia. He resides with his family in the same locality where Mahfuz has his home in. Alo is shocked to have seen the corpse of Sher Ali. He is utterly speechless as if he just saw a ghost! Both of them uplift the dead body and place it on the boat considerately. Alo oars the boat faster ahead. Once he looks at Mahfuz but cannot pronounce a single word. In fact, he does not know what to say! He does not want to add salt to injury. Seeing the corpse, he assumes that a tiger must have been behind this. Another boatman is passing by singing Lalon’s song, খাঁচার ভিতর অচিন পাখি কেমনে আসে যায়, তারে ধরতে পারলে মন বেড়ী দিতাম পাখির পায়” [How does the unknown bird enter the cage and find a way out? If I could catch it, I would put its legs in chains]. Human body is a cage indeed in which the ‘bird’ i.e. ‘spirit’ comes in, stays for a while and goes away later forever. None can take hold of it. EVER!

While returning, the distance seems to be longer. The boat reaches the bank next to the home quite soon. Mahfuz cannot weep any longer. With the support of the boatman, he brings the dead body to the courtyard of the home. There he finds myriad people waiting already as if they were the flood victims waiting for the relief. So many curious eyes discern Mahfuz’s presence.


Mahfuz stands next to the corpse of his much-loved and esteemed brother. It is the same body in which life smiled even a few hours ago. Each person rushes towards the dead body like anything. All the people stand surrounding Sher Ali’s corpse and Mahfuz. Mahfuz feels like a hive and the people are the bees! The women start wailing so penetratingly. It appears that the crying sound is reaching the sky and returning as an echo. Mahfuz is still in the standing posture like a statue with the blood-spattered, speechless axe on his shoulder. 

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