I bleed from the bruises,

unseen dribble and drifts,

shaping the speckles slowly,

mar not the mirror of my memory

but the sponge of my character

– so soaked and heavy ….


I reflect on my fragrant past

like a baby lulled in maternal arms,

with a settled heart and a poultice of warmth,

swathing the cuts, salving my missing shards

I shed when I feel my heart….


I found myself in labyrinth of time,

and you find this host riddled by parasites

seeds of mephitic moments ooze of rage,

silently changing, slightly every time,

as every encounter conjures a fresh decline

do you see such saline conduct of my appetite?





©Written Frames, 2018

How strange it is that I hardly hold any memory to reflect upon if it is not the memory with happy faces….

And how strange it is that I think of such memories with a heavy heart which is nothing but a by-product of emotions that bad moments had planted in my behavior all along….



nobody is right, nobody is wrong

in the wrong, we find right

and in the right, a wrong


rippled in mirages is morality

a fallacy adorned with adulation

the far we have come, where

everybody is right with modest wrong

pure is not pure, but adulterated


produce of over-trodden land

infused with sweetener and pest control

adulterated is new pure, a new want

ample fruit bearing of modelled green

so sweet, so delectable



PS. If not poetry, what else will qualify to refine the effervescence of wandering thoughts. The thought of good and bad is perennial and keeps you in loop forever. I wonder if to do wrong is a new want, a new desire, adapting to the rainbow of attributes that a heart casts and breathes perfection to survive the modern. All white is outdated, when we have all the colors to play with.

 We are neither right, nor wrong. We are right in wrong and wrong in right. We are adulterated and it is the purest form of us.


©Written Frames, 2018

Pic credit goes to my dear friend Diana. Thank you!




receding waves vowed to hit

seashore rimmed with onlookers

impressions of steady feet are moist

earth of my body powders and slips in


from the earth, to the earth

circle of living profuse in pavements

fragments deposited with flow of time

a new arc, a new phase of life


a sediment hither

I settle here for the time


©Written Frames, 2018




Always be a son

Always be a daughter

Wherever we live

Far away from parents;

Doubts ruled out


And lovers?


There will always be lovers

Wherever going, wherever breathing

Find your new specials

Mirage of ‘the special’ ruled out

Announce a new name for your beloved


Love and the lovers we love

Always change

And so the one who loves


©Written Frames, 2018




Stink of water clogged

irks nose and a happy tongue

Fruits of rooted soul

 …  …  …

Dynamics of life

Stagnant water or still trees

Perspective matters


There is a teacher I remember who asked us to adopt change. She provided her stance with a comparison done to stagnant water and asked if we being hesitant to change, would like to stink for sticking to one situation, one manner or one fashion of living.

I wondered why to compare with still water, why not with magnificent trees standing tall for years and years to come. Such kind beings to bear sweet fruits of generosity!!

It is not necessary for a solution, an advice to work for all of us.

We all have varied needs.

Do not let them make you feel any less.

Embrace yourself!


©Written Frames, 2017




I am four-walled

willingly zoned,

I deny to step out

The cozy premises

Tempts me

I am the ruler,

Have no one to challenge or shout!

What goes around?

Why would I care,

I am happily ignorant

Living with my manifestations

Of glory and grandeur

Which is self-proclaimed!!


At times I travel

For a change of place

What to explore?

What to chase?

To run is definitely not my pace.

Anyway I started,

My destination I reached

But Alas!!

Or has my interest peaked?

I end up in the place

Of my beginning

What a shame!

I am four-walled again.



Comfort zone is nothing less than a swamp, where you continue to slip deep down bit by bit, inch by inch for every desire and chance of bringing a change is entertained in thoughts but never through actions.

What do we call such people?





© Written Frames, 2017


Background Image Source

Let us travel . . . .


Written Frames

Travelling facilitates an influx of emotions and thoughts which were always there within, however, in a suspended state and now they tend to bloom. Do we get to know ourselves- what genre we belong to unless we explore different kinds of people and personalities around us?

Sitting in my seat as the wind runs through my hair, it seduces my conscience and I fall back into dreams and faded visions. I think of things I ignored, I dream of places I have never been to and I find myself in the state I always need to be in- carelessly at peace and with flying freedom of thought. May this journey never stop, let me embrace what I am for a little longer. Let me travel again and push my struggling thought through the window of dreams to the reality. But would its freedom be welcomed in the society of defined…

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