There’s a mirror in front of my bed, And each morning it reflects a different version of me. Somedays it’s all about the messy hair,...

Does the writer ever gets written about, Her eyes, Her smile, Her laughter? Does the writer ever get mentioned, In someone’s story, In...

I stare at the sea-blue colored moth, Sitting on my ceiling, As I listen to the frogs, Outside my window, All in anticipation of an...

He, who lives in the sanctum of my poetries, Within the oasis of hope, Defines my poetry as colors reflecting from the rainbow, As I...

i) The moment I started losing him, I realised he had made no promises to stay. But, he didn’t really go, He came back, Like rains every...