Cruising Alone

  A guy like you— who boasts of conquests like trophies— dares to call me a psychopath? A guy like you— who measures his worth by body count— Do you  think you can shame me? A guy like you— who has built his pride on silencing others— believes he can shut my voice? You justify your choices, wrap them in excuses, but hold me to standards you’d never dare apply to yourself. And I am the one to blame? Men like you deserve no sympathy. Oh, you pity me? I do not need pity from a man drowning in his own bravado. The audacity— to tell me to "calm down," to label me hysterical, to say, “Don’t take it personally.” Your intentions were pure? Where was that purity when I said, I won't be able to take this anymore? Now you would go on and say you did everything you could? But aren’t you the one who was laughing, mocking me when I was in pain? I was never afraid to stand up— not as a child, not now. And I sure as hell won’t let you walk away unscathed. You tried to humiliate my very s...

  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...

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...

  Tell me— is it funny, really? You asked me to trust, and  promised, “I’ll do anything if I must.” I didn’t make you jump through hoops or test your resolve with if-else loops. It was you— always asking, always needing. Even when I hesitated, I said, Yes. I did what you asked, though it left me less. I said, “I’m no mother; I won’t play that role,” but you begged, “Be mine, you make me whole.” And when the moment came to be the man you claimed, I gave you a choice: “Don’t stay for the nice-guy image; choose your voice.” And you— you took the easy way out. Now you call me delusional? The one who started all the confusion— was it not you? Tell me then: Did you give your mother a choice to chase happiness after her pain? When your father died, did she gain a chance at “better”? If I was so “mom-like,” would you have offered her the same right? To walk away, to find her life? Don’t put your labels on me, using “personal choice” and “divine timing” to suit your needs convenientl...

  You should have left the gully cricket talks with your boys. I do like a good lightsaber, but I am into different types of toys. Not that you ever had a good grip on you... I am sure you only enjoy it when they strip for you. What made you think that you ever pulled me with your charm? My words are enough to do the harm. You really think you brought me down to my knees? That somehow you got into my head... and you wish I were dead. Not your money nor your image, I always like to take centre stage... If I seem strange it's because I have an emotional range. True freedom is what I honestly crave, Not your lifelong bondage. No desire to control or be controlled. You might call yourself a catch, But I am not yours or anyone's, in fact. I am my own person first, Not a piece of meat for you to lust... Dare to make fun of my vulnerability And you would lose all your credibility. If "All the world's a stage," and if we all are merely players, Then I would create my own ...

Sometimes, the world around us feels like an unrelenting storm. People may doubt us, try to tame us, or even shackle our spirits. Yet, amid all this external chaos, the loudest critic often resides within—our own inner voice. It’s the voice that magnifies our fears, punches harder than anyone else, and tells us we're not enough. Ever noticed how comparing yourself to someone else’s progress makes you forget your own? How the fear of confronting your shadows and challenges can make you shrink away from your potential? In those moments, when the weight feels unbearable, it’s time to say it out loud: “Silencio, Bruno!” (Yes, Disney-Pixar fans, you’ll catch my drift!) Sometimes, the real battle is silencing Bruno in our heads—the one that whispers doubts louder than dreams. For me, this poem is also a reminder of my name, Kanika. Just as a diamond starts as a humble atom but emerges dazzling and unbreakable, I too strive to refine and justify my essence. So here’s a piece that’s not j...

Have you ever been underestimated by someone who thinks they can measure you by their own limited standards? This poem takes aim at those who reduce people to labels, stereotypes, and numbers. It’s a declaration of breaking free from their narrow definitions and stepping into your own power, as you reclaim your narrative. I’m done playing by your tired old rules, Go ahead, dip your pen in ink pots of dolls. Hide your random wealth in cryptos and shells, Your game’s just as shallow as the lies you tell. I make and break my own damn image, No labels are needed to pen my lineage. They shift with every word I speak, From prayers whispered to nights dressed chic. Oh, you flaunt, taunt, and rate me like a show, Boosting some TRP— but who even knows? While you brag about code and your so-called might, Acting like God’s gift to JavaScript nights. Stick to your numbers, your screens, and your tests, Your zeros and ones—there, you’re the best. But out here, in the world of flesh and soul, You co...

  This question haunts countless bright, educated women , paralyzing them with self-doubt . The casual use of labels like “psychopath” and “nutjob” against women in our society is appalling and harmful . These words are often weaponized and hurled without regard for the psychological damage they cause. At first, I might have dismissed such terms as isolated incidents of cruelty. But these accusations aren’t rare; they echo in the lives of women I admire— intelligent, empathetic, principled women . They, too, have found themselves battling these labels, often for nothing more than expressing their thoughts , asserting boundaries , or reacting to disrespect . This isn’t just a personal struggle; it’s a systemic issue , a reflection of fragility in those who resort to such labels. The Ease of Dismissal Terms like “psychopath” and “nutjob” are more than insults—they’re tactics . By throwing out these labels, some men discredit women’s feelings , opinions , and individuality witho...

He trusts a lie, they say, “He’s bold, A man’s mistake is brushed off, cold.” But when she trusts, it’s a heavier toll, She’s blamed for giving away her soul. If he seeks pleasure, it’s “natural,” “right,” A man’s desire is pure and bright. But when she craves, explores her own, She’s shunned, her womanhood dethroned. Why must her hunger be a source of shame? Why must her body bear the blame? They say her strength is in restraint, As if her fire’s meant to faint. But why can’t strength and softness blend? Why can’t her power have no end? Why is she told to fear her voice, Is her body not her own by choice? Why teach her that she’s fragile, weak, When her heart’s strong, her mind unique? Why make her hide behind closed doors, Afraid to explore what’s truly hers? Let her rise without fear Of shame, of doubt, of a whispered sneer. Let her body be her pride, Her femininity is not denied. No more the chains of modesty That cage her strength, her autonomy. Her heart is wild, her spirit free—...