Cruising Alone

  You teach us the divinity of temple grounds, The sacredness past the mortal bounds. You explain how "Pran Pratishta" is done in those stone moulds, And how it feels closer to the divine home. Yet you often forget this body is my temple too, My soul lives between these skin and bones too. You go to war if they disintegrate or ruin it, And energy released is painful. Then why do you say I am dramatic? Who will fight my war? I never said I am God, But am I not a creation of that divine thought? Then why can't I weep for how they touched me with their lust? Why am I called names for my rightful outbursts? You teach me in detail about the sacred grounds, But forget that I am as much a part of it. You love adorning them with flowers and jewels, When I put on makeup and adorn myself with silver and gold, Why must it be seen as vanity, not a reflection of my soul? You bow down in temples and ask for abundance, But hurt my very soul. The others might have looted this land and ma...

  You crave a woman's touch, You crave a lover's skin brush, Yet you never adore or respect her, All you do is lust over her. You lecture on love, As though you understand its depth, But you disrespect her very existence, Then pretend you know its breadth. You call it a genuine connection, But it's just a disguise for your desire, Hiding behind words, masking the truth, A hunger that only feeds your fire. You speak of need and long for her grace, But what you want is to take, Not to cherish or honour, Just a feast to partake. You don’t see her as a woman to adore, Only a prize to be won, And in the end, you're the one to destroy, What could’ve been, what should have been spun. You pretend to be “the nice guy,” But you’ll never treat her right, You want her to be your conquest, Not your equal in the light. So stop calling it love, Stop calling it connection, When you only see her as a reflection Of your animalistic obsession.

  Boys like you do not like it When the script is flipped on you. A woman who leaves is always A “whore” or a “bitch”—but never the truth. You asked about me? What did they tell you? That I was “always” a “self-serving narcissist”? Is that really the truth, or just a distorted view? I did ask about you, though, People called you “bin painde ka lota,” And if you stood alone in an election, Even then, they’d press NOTA. So, you honestly feel that you hurt my ego? You could’ve rejected me like a man, But no, you did it like a coward, With a sly smile and the words, “Oh, you can’t handle rejection?” How sad is that? You affected my health—HEALTH— And still cried about “dust allergy,” But your ego needed more—how pathetically true. Ohh, I did understand that intimacy is important between a woman and man, And I told you I was molested, but you did not ask me if I was alright or would I be ok? No, you simply said you have needs and blow job is a deal breaker, But guys like you call women ...

  I never understand it, Why people are so afraid of letting me shine, As if I stole something from them and made it mine. They’d rather have me stay small, Than proudly cheer when I stand tall. I’ve seen this on repeat, Ever since I was born, As if I took something of theirs, Snatched it and made my throne. People won’t tell me things— What if I win? As if I was forcefully put in this skin. I’ve rarely seen people truly appreciate me at all, Yet I’ve seen them try to pull me down in a group, But one-on-one, they’re trying to win my affection, And then label me with duplicitous intentions. They may be sad if I die, But often make sure I never fully thrive. So, I go on and hide, Enjoying all my sides.

  Would you like to explore societal norms, gender expectations, Or personal struggles against limiting beliefs? I’ll tell you one thing, but you better listen— I won’t let you define me, not even for a second. The body you lusted for is a body I hated being born in. And you laugh, saying you "hurt my ego" and "hit me below the belt." Did I harass you? Are you going to talk about equality and respect with me? Have you ever respected anyone for simply existing? No, you have not. Because every time, it's: "What do you have to offer? Your 'fayada'?" Or "Why should I come to you? What do you even have?" If that is the case, then I had no fat on my chest as a kid too, But that still did not stop a man. Or when I was simply walking down the street, And a man groped me between my thighs in broad daylight. And you still think I wanted your money? That you would be good for my image? You, who crave money, power, and status, So a policeman does...

  Go ahead, flaunt the size of your wallet, I was never in it for your pocket, Because I don’t “phasao a man” nor view them as a “catch.” Ah, the false notion you have— That you were the one who brought me down to my knees, As if I was hopelessly in love with you. If only you could comprehend what was really beneath the surface. It wasn’t about losing myself in you, But in losing my purpose. If you think it was all for you, Let me make it crystal clear: I wanted to burn my skin off, To rid myself of the stench of what you think you touched. This was never about your age, race, or face. It was about the rhythm of your aura, And how your energy consumed mine, Pulled me into its pace, Until I could no longer remember my own. You mistook my confusion for submission, But what you didn’t see was the storm raging within. Your power was nothing more than an illusion, An empty shell that I once thought I needed. But now, I see through it— And realize my worth was never tied to your validati...

  When you have his baby, Always remember how he paraded your "sexy" body, Like you were his goddamn property. But I stood up for you, Even without knowing your story. Because that man has no spine, He’d brag about how he made me whine, How he dimmed my shine, Puffed up with pride, Claiming he’s the only one touched by the divine. He’d mock my belief in something deeper, Sneer at my refusal to measure worth in the shallow, Calling me irrational, Just because I wouldn’t rate people along the hollow. But I see you, Caught in his games, A pawn for his claims, And I hope one day you’ll know— That I spoke for you, Because I saw what he’d do. Not for pity, not for revenge, But because I’ve learned to stand tall in this storm. And while he’ll claim divine favour, The truth is simple— He never even deserved a glimpse of your form. So when you cradle that baby, Knowing this truth I softly hum: You were meant for love, But maybe, Not with this one.

  Born the elder of two girls, I thought, "Be strong, be wise, for who else would take care of them?" So I studied hard, played sports to build muscle, Not for joy, but survival. Yet someone's son says I was always an insane woman. I ignored the indecent touch, Kept my skirts in the drawer and wore cargo pants instead, Silent, because I couldn’t risk losing my freedom— The freedom to complete a school project. So I collected A’s, never rants, But someone's son says I was always an insane woman. I became a shield, a safe haven, Protecting those who sang in their innocence. Yet someone's son says I was always an insane woman. I befriended men others scorned, Thought kindness could mend wounds— But instead, I was wounded. Sexually assaulted by one I tried to defend. Still, someone's son says I was always an insane woman. At 25, exhaustion clung to me like a shadow. Couldn’t even learn the violin without That middle-aged man stealing my dignity. Yet someone's ...

  They say they are practical, And I have no grasp over the world. Yes, indeed—because their practicality It is how easily they can buy a woman. "How does it matter what she earns? I’d rather prefer a teacher who comes home." But he would have roamed around Seeking the so-called comfort he could find. Yes, so practical you are— Laughing at women and their issues, Then wanting someone who obeys you. Funny, this "practical guy" Talks about equality While proudly proclaiming, "I’d rather be with a dumb girl." Someone who simply listens, Never raises a question. A practical guy Who makes practical investments By sleeping with women of profession, But suddenly becomes a scared little boy When faced with the truth. So he silences your voice— Not with reason, but a lightsaber stick. Yes, indeed, so practical.

Inspired by the haunting intensity of Halsey’s "Control," the defiant rage of "Nightmare," and the raw vulnerability of "Bad at Love," I wrote "Creep" as a reflection of my own struggles with mental health. It captures the weight of both external judgment and internal critique, especially when society demands you to embody an impossible ideal of femininity and purity. This piece delves into the battle between the labels imposed on us and the monsters we fight within, seeking to reclaim humanity in a world quick to condemn. Creep— You say I am a creep, That I will sow what I reap. I dug a hole so deep, Because you say I am a creep— That I deserve to weep, Because you say I am a creep. Well, I can't even say what I really want to say, Or else I'll go beep, beep, beep. The monsters kept me awake, When all I craved was sleep. But you say I am a creep, A wolf in sheep's skin— A label so cheap. I felt like a garbage heap, No shots for me, j...

  The boy with his ledger, of rights and wrongs, Sings hollow tunes, but never his own songs. When his flaws are laid bare, he turns to “move on,” Yet he thrives on the judgment he casts upon. A lover of idioms, metaphors in vain, Believes his wordplay makes him reign. With a glance, he judges, with words, he stabs, Deems himself a king of life's drabs and jabs. But let’s be honest, your digs fell flat, Not a single diss hit the mat. You call yourself cosmic—master of the dance, Yet stumble through life with a hollow stance. You sneer at the world, “They can’t best me!” If that were true, oh, how grim life would be. And you, unaware of my silent strife, I longed to erase the touch of your life. You, the one who knew about Stifler’s Mom, But couldn't handle my fire—you’d rather play calm. “Would you wear this in front of my mom?” you’d plea, While handing out lectures on love and purity. Preach on, boy, of peace and white doves, While you wear your hypocrisy like a glove. Taste ...

  I wish I could be the picture-perfect feminine woman they seek, But I hated every inch of my skin and thought water might make me feel clean. That was when I was only a child, And now they whisper that I'm untamed and wild. Some men might lust over this chest, While puberty left me tired, never at rest. A time when I should have been happy to enter girlhood, But I am still healing wounds way into my adulthood. These kind of guys would tell you, And say, "Tumko uthwa lunga." Yeah, because casual humor about violence against women is the best, And I should smile, right? Or else I’m uptight, humourless, or simply unblessed. They wield their arguments like spears of God, Twisting faith to justify only their plot. Lusting for bodies while fearing the soul, Never adoring the beauty that makes us whole. These so-called "intellectual men," so progressive in mind, Forget their own roots, and leave empathy behind. For they were within a woman to begin, Only when they se...

I always have a target on my back, Asked to shrink, to dim, to turn the lack. When I shine, I see the frown — it’s clear, "Can you hold back your victories, my dear?" "Hey, don’t talk to him, please, I get so jealous, When you laugh with the one who caught my eye, he’s precious." Yeah, I’m not the one trying to steal anyone’s man, I crave deeper talks, in truth, that’s my plan. Behind my back, the plots will unfold, I once thought they were real, but their hearts turned cold. I compliment those who shine, with no agenda, just praise, I believe in lifting others, not in petty games or praise. Why would I take what belongs to another? What’s theirs is theirs, I have no need to smother. I was never trying to be "great"—you can quote me on that, I’ve always wondered if maybe you’re better at that. Still, you think I’d ever envy what you hold, The boy who crushed my ego, yet I remain bold. Please, stay with her, she’s lovely, I know, Does she know you paraded h...

  Brought me down to my knees? You can't even strut on those flat feet. I had to pull myself down because you envied my crown. Did I need to latch on to you to make a name? Boy, that's indeed so lame. I am far above the superficial fame. I hoped you would take a stand, But being with you was like drowning in quicksand. I might have lost my head for a while, But I am not dead and can still rock a smile. You may be fair but you never played fair. You are a great jester, you claimed. True, real queens hire you to keep them entertained. Never saw this side? Please, I was never meant to hide. Even if I cried, God knows I tried. Listen to Adele all you want, I dance to my own song. "We could have it all"? If only you had never made me feel small. "I am in too deep"? Who told you I was yours to keep? You only came for what I can give, Never to actually love. Chasing "dumb feminine" women but never being masculine enough. And still, you say I am not a norm...

This poem is a deeply personal and emotional reflection on the labels and judgments women endure, often imposed by a society steeped in misogyny. From a young age, I’ve been vocal against the derogatory terms and stereotypes used to demean women, particularly those who have been victims of abuse. I remember standing up for a woman who had been sexually abused in her youth, only to be dismissed as “PAGAL” when her suffering led to a mental imbalance. Even as a child who had faced molestation like countless women, I understood how one traumatic incident could leave a lasting scar on a person’s psyche. This awareness made me fiercely protective of children, regardless of their gender. It also sharpened my insight into the hypocrisy of some men—those who insult and demean the daughters of others while demanding respect for their own families. These actions reflect deep-rooted misogyny, where men fail to see how their behaviour violates the nurturing instincts of women and perceive any reta...

What is your level, let me ask you? The man who claims he works so hard, That no one can reach the level you are at. You look down upon those who help, In ways you cannot even grasp, And then try to throw money, It's as if it justifies every dig you've made in jest. I never asked your caste, But you felt inferior about that, didn’t you? What makes you think your status Gives you the right to bring others down, When you seek empathy for your choices, And the ways you fall? You boast about reading from different sources, But did you actually even read the history of your own land? Or do you justify the actions of those, Who took in slaves just because they could? You wear royal colours stamped on your foreign pass, But don’t you forget, A lot of those you think are beneath you, Died to protect the people of the motherland. How dare you say that sexual assault is something only faced by Indian women, And Indian women are psycho in terms of that? When you, who lacked basic sex educ...

  Are you proud of yourself, Boasting how you hit a girl below the belt? What’s the point of worshipping a Goddess If you mock the very organs that give life? And you think a woman’s respect Hinges on how much you earn? Is that the height of your manhood— Your so-called intelligence? Were you just a naive child, Or a man who never grew a spine? Would you enjoy being groped, A hand shoved between your thighs, And someone paraded as if they tasted The nectar of eternal life? Is this your legacy? A world where reverence turns to hypocrisy, And silence shields the guilty?

Have you ever given someone all the grace they didn’t deserve, only to watch them play their part with no real effort or sincerity? It’s a bitter pill, realizing that while you were trying to nurture, they were simply taking advantage of your kindness. This poem is a reflection of that moment—when I stopped grading their failures with sympathy and gave them what they truly earned. Disappointment should be your middle name, Yet you strut around with audacity, no shame. You graded me in realms where you barely passed, No effort, no spark—yet you dared to cast. I gave you grace marks, just so you’d feel the man, Propped up your ego, held up the facade, the flimsy plan. A line of women you’ve left in your wake, Empty hearts, whispered promises, a trail of fake. Inadequate love, yet you blame the insane— Girls twisted in your void, left to heal the pain. And still, you think you own the stage, A hollow boy playing at being sage. So here’s my final grade, no more disguise: You failed the tes...

  Unconditional love, you show your mother, But forget she’s also a daughter of another. Where does your empathy, your respect stray, When another's daughter stands in your way? You rob her youth, her peace, her mind, And leave your wounds for others to find. You worship God, the ultimate creator, Mother Earth, and nature, your nurturer and saviour. But what of the women, the earthly creators? Where is your concern for these life-sustainers? The shameless gaze upon a friend, Or the harsh critique as they near their life's twilight end— Do you not see the gifts they bring, The goodness that's woven in life's every string. Boys like you, in games, degrade, Discarding women like trophies displayed. Do you think it’s cool, in your virtual reign, To belittle her efforts, her dignity stained? Undressing her in the halls of your mind, Yet expecting her always to be kind. Boasting of conquests, as a mark of integrity, Laughing as though it proves masculinity. Do you think it wo...

  Actions speak louder than words, But my words will bring your actions out in the open. Kept calling me crazy, Maybe your memory is hazy. No, I won’t back down. Go ahead and frown. Try parading her, Because you only enjoy crumpling every fleur. Then act like a good guy, Laugh out loud thinking you hurt a woman’s ego—a big sigh. Everything that suits you goes by your choice, Yet you treat girls like one of your toys. Boys like you who think they’re doing a favour, When they talk to a woman with respect. Believing that since Maa Lakshmi graces your pockets, You can go around poking your rockets. But your souls are blind and have marbles in those sockets. Did I show my true colours? Go ahead then, build up your case. Sure, I am the one who is such a disgrace. Actions speak louder than words, But my words will bring your actions out in the open. Equating a woman’s worth with words like “tight,” And you think I am always ready to fight and have lost my sight. But you’re a big meat of c...

For the 68th-day prompt at Poetry House Party, I decided to cook up something unconventional. Instead of a traditional structure, I created a recipe for life, capturing the stages of growth and self-discovery through a mix of ingredients. From childhood innocence to the complexity of adulthood, every stage of life is a blend of flavours, each contributing to who we are today. This poem is a reflection of that evolution, infused with a touch of humour and personal experience. How did I do in turning life's recipe into verse? Let’s cook it! Well, we could start with the biology of it— A tadpole and an egg in the mix, But I wasn't made in a test tube, sis. The ingredients vary at every stage, It becomes crazier as I age. It was simpler as a child: 3 cups of innocence , pure and wild. 3 cups of obedience , a rule-followers pride. 2 cups of zeal , to take on any ride. A cup of laughter and smile , carefree and bright, A few tablespoons of tears and sighs , for those sleepless nights...