I Bleed Words Sometimes


The Beauty And The Beast Are One

You are so beautiful when you’re vulnerable.

So glorious in your fragility

So serene in your sadness

So enticing in your susceptibility

So pretty in your inequities

So fetching in your wretchedness

So tranquil in your desolation

So charming in your despair

You are so strong in your brokenness


My 20th Contribution to NaPoWriMo because some things just have to be said out loud.


When it gets sunny,
I’ll be your rain.

When you falter,
I’ll be your strength.

But when I get lonely,
You be my only,
My only… way to heaven,
My love.




My 19th Contribution to NaPoWriMo is dedicated to the love of my life.

Aditi Mehta for you…

Because I know how much you love simplicity.

Love, Is It Over Yet?

Is it over yet?

The ordeal of love?

Or do I need to continue smiling.

Continue defying,

The state of my heart.


Is it over yet?

The patient wait,

for nothingness,

for emptiness.

for hollowness?


Is it over yet?

Your condescending laugh,

echoing through my head,

resounding through my soul.

creeping through my body?


Is it over yet?

your pretence,

your facade,

your false promises?


I guess,

It just isn’t over, until you’re over.Image

My 18th Contribution to NaPoWriMo 2013


Sometimes you look at the person and your heart skips a beat.

Sometimes you look at the person and your smile doesn’t cease.

Sometimes you speak to that person and time is a vacant entity.

Sometimes you look into that person’s eyes and all you want to do is kiss them tender and sweet,


So you just look away instead.



Picture Courtesy: Israel based photographer, Yell Saccani’s uses movement to create disturbing imagery. Combing both traditional and digital methods of photography many of Saccani’s subjects appear deranged or enraged, they are, as Saccani says,  ’a recording of feelings, not easily deciphered, not meant to be understood but meant to be felt.’

This is my 14th contribution to NaPoWriMo. 🙂

This journey is more than just writing something for the heck of it. It is a process for me. A way in which I know my life is turning around. For the better.


The inexplicable.

Beyond rhyme or reason.

Beyond wrong or right.

Just the insane birthed out of irrational want.

Just one tied to another with strings of love and hate.




My 13th Contribution to NaPoWriMo.

The haunted soul

My own character was the thorn in my side.

I felt the ache and didn’t shy away or try to hide.

I let it show, the anger within,

For the agonizing love I let out a scream.

Catherine Earnshaw the damsel I so loved,

But for her to understand, it would take more than courage and words.


You teach me now how cruel you’ve been — cruel and false!

Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy?

Why couldn’t you give me your love?

It’s only that much more insufferable,

Because I am strong.

Without you Cathy, my love is trapped in the grave beyond.


With these words,

I tried to make her mine.

She was after all Heathcliff’s prized possession.

Alas, I could only be laid in her tomb, my love being buried with me.

Had I lived to see this day, this would have been my confession.


PS 12th Contribution to NaPoWriMo. This is in line with the theme for today which is about writing a persona poem. I chose my favourite character from my most favourite book Wuthering Heights.



We make mistakes.

We falter.

We live on the edge.

We’re impulsive.

We take the plunge.

We risk our sanity.

We regret.

And then… we move on.

You know how that is?

Yeah, me neither.


PS: 11th  contribution to NaPoWriMo.


She let him run his fingers through her hair.

Sometimes she let him tear them from their roots.

She’d let him sing poems of care,

Sometimes let him spill venom and be rude.

She was his slave.

Sometimes his muse.


To her, he will always be, just another man.

Poet and his muse

PS: My tenth contribution to NaPoWriMo.

Picture courtesy:

Ayan Ghoshal You can buy his paintings here: http://tinyurl.com/bp8tque

Lover Friend

Temptation to me you are,

I crave for your love.


But sweet poison you are,

I sink as you get me drunk


Because you see, old friend.

Not all lovers can be saviours.

Not all lovers can make you feel loved.


— 9th Contribution to NaPoWriMo.

Perfect retreat


It has the power to heal.

It is your saving grace.

It is your escape.


When the world is closing in on you.

It will show you the horizon.

Open a new avenue.

It smells sweet.

The beautiful scent of knowledge and power.

It’s your healer.

It’s your friend.

It’s your solace.

It’s your refuge.


Your perfect hiding place.


You’ll lose them all,

And then you’ll lose sleep over what’s lost.

You’ll lose your life,

You’ll lose your happiness,

You’ll lose everything you’ve lived for.

And then one day,

You’ll see how futile it was.

How utterly ignorant you were,

How ungrateful you turned.

And you’ll be ashamed

You let hurt, burn your life, taint your soul

Rotten your mind, disfigure you beyond recognition.

When all you had to do was look away.

Walk away.

In to the love that was standing at the door.

Imploring you to embrace it.

But you were naive. Stupid.

Not anymore.

That counts for more.

To mourn or smile?

You stomp out, whimper and cry, you bleed, bleed again,

You incite the venom, the poison, your soul so despises.

You sing so sweet, so melodious, of heartache and pain,

Yet hate you welcome, your brothers come home after ages?

You seek the new, the old you discard and slain,

It’s easy a bargain to make, to burn the ashes

Of our past glories to relive the agony and smile,

To hurt and curse, yet experience little happiness for awhile.


This is my sixth contribution towards the NaPoWriMo project. My humble attempt at creating something on the lines of Ottava Rima an Italian form of poetry.


Hold me in your…

Hold me in your arms.
Rock me from side to side.
Lift my spirit up,
before I crumble and die.
Because, Darling, it’s time I heal.

~ Mitchelle Rozario Jansen

A man’s hand

A dear friend of mine said once, “You’ve got a man’s hand” At first I took offence, but then there was some truth in what he said. Here’s my thought out response to him.

Even as a child, when others played with dolls, she let her palms run through the mud.

When she grew a little older, she had the confectioner’s hands. The bakers palm, all sweaty, black, full of dirt.

They were the same hands that picked bags, Bags twice the weight of herself. She had a boy’s hand, all rough.

But these aren’t really the reason behind her coarse palms.

These are insignificant. Negligible moments told.

She had a man’s hand, because too fast she had to grow.

Because only a man’s hand, could stop the blow.

What makes a coward?

Hate easily befits the void created by love. Easily. Like it was one and the same being.

She smiled the same infectious smile. While her heart was tattered into pieces. She smiled and it hurt just the same, like when she cried at night.


Life. Irony. Sadist.

Laugh at her timidity.

Laugh at her brave facade.

Because you see her soul through her eyes.

You watch with lecherous laughter at the storm they reflect.

But it’s not you she’s afraid off.


She’s frightened of her own masochism.

Her own strength makes her weak.

Pen her story

She was accustomed to the routine. Meet. Muse. Misery. It was as though the story was written once. Relived a thousand times over.

She was prepared for the fateful day. She was armed with tears and a brave heart. She would use it when her knees felt weak. She would use it when the shadows of her soul were dark and cloudy. She would use them against her own will. She would use them to thrive. She would use them to smile. She would use them to create a cocoon. She would use them to create a fortress. She would use them to hurt, herself and others. She would use it when history repeated itself. Yet again.

Burnt ashes in the tray. Crumpled papers thrown in the air. Warmth on her cheeks. It took courage and a lot of Bourbon that night. For her to gather up all the strength her weak heart could shelter. She knew it had to be done. Because something’s just must. A necessity. Like breath for life.

She penned her story that midnight hour. It was called ‘Goodbye’.

She was accustomed to reliving the story over and over again. She looked forward to the routine.

Meet. Muse. Misery.

It was as though the story was written once.

Relived a thousand times over.

The adders kiss

What would happen if we all give in? Quit fighting and just lay down the arms?

What would happen we just pulled the trigger? If we just bled ourselves dry?


Lying in a back alley somewhere just a brick that lay beside.

You hear the stream don’t you? Do you also hear my cry?


Why wash your soul down the brook when we have it trapped and tied?

Sometimes rewind. Sometimes relive. Sometimes you need something to pull you back into reality.


Rewind till you loathe, relive till you die. Look how you whimper on two, crawl on four, where thy heaven divine?

It’s lost. It’s lost. It’s lost to my own demons.


How do you live with this? Without a clean slate and with the serpents kiss?

Don’t you bleed every day, you addict, Oh! Bliss



~ By Varun Chakravarty & Mitchelle Rozario Jansen


Author’s note:

Yet another amalgamation of a random conversation we both had. Hope you guys like this effort. Cheers!

Checkout Varun’s other works on http://stateofmaroon.wordpress.com/


What’s possession?

What’s faithfulness?

What’s loyalty?

How do I own another when I barely own myself?

I can love.

But how do I coax another, arm twist him into sweet surrender.

I can’t.

I won’t.

So l let him go. Like the river making it’s unending journey.

I don’t glance over once.

If I try to stop, it’s all in vain.

The stream stops for no one.

Not even love.

Not even loyalty.

Not even faithfulness.

Not even fidelity.

It’s not a trade we can chose.

Love is a gamble we lose.


I dwell in the shelter of the most high
and rest in the shadow of the Almighty
He is my refuge and fortress
He covers me with His feathers
and under His wings I find refuge.

Adaptation of Psalm 91

To the loud drowning sound I let myself float.

Surrender to the chaotic beauty of rhythm and love.

The piercing sound starts to take over.

It’s time to birth a new scar.



Ink one with my skin.

Ache one with my body.

It’s beautiful.

It’s beautiful misery.



The more it tightens its hold on me.

The more I experience freedom through my bones.

The more a tear wishes to escape.

More ecstatic the heart gets.



What magical few hours.

Sweet addiction.

Let the body melt to temptation.

Let the mind free itself from heartache.



Time to lose inhibitions.

Time to give in to pleasure.


Let it drill.

Let it etch.

Let it carve.

Let it leave.


A beautiful scar.


Leave me be

It’s inexplicable.

No words ever written can do it justice.

No poem can make it rhyme.

The coarse journey.

The blatant trial.

Nothing a metaphor worth a dime.

Agony lived.

Sour felt.

Warmth endured.

Silence dwelt.

All in the name of the hate after love.

Go ahead pen your story. Tear it up. Write it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Until the past pours out from your very being.


She was so broken inside. She saw the world like that too. Scarred, 


unloved, helpless & cross. Reflection of her soul.

Too weak to weep


A shiver down your spine. Pimples rising on your skin. A trembling hand and weak knees.

You let your heart go, race against the odds.

To run into the arms of misery, like it’s a long lost friend. The one returning home.

Are we not all wise men? Wise enough to know when to let go.

Are we not all lovers? Lovers that lose hope.


Sometimes at loss for words.

Sometimes the rising tide.

Sometimes just soil trampled under the feet of expectations.

Sometimes just empty space.

It hurts to write. It hurts to keep mum. It hurts to let you know. It hurts to hold it in. It hurts to cry out loud. It hurts to bite my lip. It hurts to pen it down. It hurts to burn it up. It hurts to swallow it down. It hurts to make it known. It hurts to get up from my knee. It hurts to fall back down. It hurts to thrive and swim. It hurts to sink. It hurts to laugh. It hurts to stomp my feet. It hurts to smile. It hurts to feel. It hurts to remember. It hurts to forget. It hurts to see. It hurts to turn a blind eye. It hurts to fall back. It hurts to move on. It hurts.

It hurts to be me.

I regret letting people so close, they know exactly how to wound you.


When you sit at the porch,

Look over the mountains,

Do you see my face turn into the sun?


When you sit by the sea,

Watch the waves clashing,

Do you see me in the twirling whirls?


When you stand in the crowd,

Lost and alone,

Do you wish I was there beside you?


When you gaze at the horizon,

Away from a maddening life,

Do you wish for a companion too?


I see.

I wish.

All in vain.


You’re the dark thought that crosses my mind.

The curse on my lips.

The tear in my eye.

The aching throb in every beat.

I wish. We never were.

I regret, you.

White swan



The lone creature soaring over the waters,

Gliding over this vast mirror,
Always moving further, to where, we know not.

The white swan, alter-ego of my spirit,
Keeps pushing forward into the unknown, beautiful, open sky.

And the sun, it just smiles.