Armor of Impotence

Sitting under the spell of mist,

Amplified by the luminescent light of cresent moon,

We debated the half told lies,

And we advocated the teaching of pride,

And to bolster our fragile argument

Of moulded glass,

We wielded the flaming sword of icy desires,

And the armor of impotence.

And when the silent watcher

Wished to illuminate the one thing we didn’t desire,

The flesh ashened.

The flesh ashened,

Yet we were immune to raw truth,

The flame of all that we seek,

Drifted through the air like a dandelion.


Questionable Sanity

On certain days,

It is easier to be,

To exist, burning hopes

To the scintillating life.

But their exists a vacancy,

Or maybe a forever lingering presence,

Of fleeting moments,

Of questionable sanity,

When it is the equivalent

Of swallowing sharp stones.

The days when looking at your own reflection

In the mirror, becomes evident

Of staring in the eyes of a stranger.

Those days,

They are just too much for some,

And for some,

It is the chaos in which they exist,

The questionable sanity

In which their fluttering heart

Stays still.

The Fragile Shells of Doubt

Each soul,

Neither man nor woman,

Is held captive

By its self inflicted doubt,


bone that is shattered by

The ever growing doubt,

Ultimately transforms into the bolt,

The bolt by which the door is held in its place,

The door between greatness,

And futile existence.

The barricades of fantasy

Could burn reality,

And desires if they are built

On the ground of anxious thinking.

Instead of water,

The drops of rain feels like needle,

Instigating abrasion of agony,

Only if we strip ourselves,

Only if we empower our doubts.

Only if we incubate in the shells,

The fragile yet unbroken shells of doubts.

The Demons of Our Own Choosing

In yet another land of
Scorched yellow, and murky green,
The immortal white,
Dominated by the damned gray,
Another breath was forgotten,
Another soul doomed,
Another number,
Part of the whole yet unique,
Another soul, torn by grace,
And rebellion,
Another light seduced by
The demons of our own choosing. Continue reading “The Demons of Our Own Choosing”

I Can’t Cry Anymore

Creative fiction

The entire landscape was covered with fog, as far as your eyes could see. Everything covered in one or another gloomy shade of gray. 

In the eerie silence of gray sky, a visceral scream suddenly echoed through.

A scream that needed an escape for thirty long years. Thirty years of repressed anger, frustration, and misery. Thirty years of hiding your weaknesses because you were a man and men don’t cry.

You know, it’s strange.

I’ve avoided crying so much in my life, my eyes don’t even get wet anymore. At least not with the tears.

I can’t cry anymore. No matter how much I try.

I’ve depleted myself.

I’ve depleted my soul to the extent that if the entire world ends up burning, I wouldn’t care. I’d still be numb.

If you’re anything like me, you’d be more interested in the gut wrenching scream rather than the scenary.

Would you let the person who loves you the most see you like that? Crawled on the dirt, eyes wet, and screaming as if someone just pulled your heart out.

I wouldn’t.

Not in this lifetime.