What truth is?
Why is it sour?
Why there has to be
A right time,
To say it all
Or to hold more.

To tell an act,
An incident
Is not truth
It’s only a fact,
that is true.
Than what is truth?
Why is it sour?

It takes gut, and carries brave
The fear of results,
How will someone respond
Might get hurt,
Or the relationship fall

To have that fear,
And still be brave
To state the fact
Is what makes it

The “fact”  alone, is not truth
But to have that fear
and still be clear
Is what makes you true.

Source: Bhaagvat Geeta

If ever you read this, you will know, that it rained some where and it’s cold and breeze.

It will keep coming back,

The Breeze

Which rub your cheeks,


The pearl out of it’s seep

No matter

You cry or you smile,

What my memories

Might give to you,

The Breeze

Will take it’s share

Of sweet.

How did it end,

If you think some day,

You will see the obvious

And than

It might rain that day,

It will be cold and rain,

Yet the Breeze.

You will feel

In shivers

And than

It will keep coming back,

The Breeze

Which will rub

Your cheeks.

You know

Why eyes turn heavy sometimes,

It’s either the tears

Or you

And this breeze.

Yes at times

You may miss

Our coffee dates,

Our chit chats,

Come back here

On my blog.

Scan through

These silly posts,

Read what you never see.

Look for some reality

Which lost its existence

In this imaginary.

You will see here

A part of me

A part of you

And this Breeze.

And it will keep coming back,

The Breeze

Which rub your cheeks.


The pearls out of it’s seep

This is a City of dead emotions, People smile on the face but cry inside.

Zombies walk around. .

With broken hearts

And frozen minds. .

The city is filled

With millions of love stories

Starving incomplete. .

Hearts beats,

But with no feel. .

Men are living dead. .

Show no zeal. .

Girls are just as pretty

As they could be. .

Though the eyes are sad. .

Its the city of love. .

Where zombies walk. .

Living dead. .

This road know us so dearly, but whom will it tell our stories…

The road might just shout our stories,

But then it has no voices to spell…

Cross this road,

Like total strangers…

I will act like i don’t know you..

And you pass by,,

Like anonymous,,

The road may recognize both of us,

Because it has no heart,,

But then whom will it tell,

Let our story,

Be buried like an unprintable edition,,

Because no one will read it,,

Never will it be heard,,

The road might just shout our stories,

But then it has no voices to spell…

If ever we meet in skies, will you let me hold you hand and sing a lullaby.

This is night

And still no signs of sleep.

Peace of mind is a bliss

And tonight

I am probably devoid.

The ghosts of past

Thoughts (which never last)

People who touched my life

People i loved, People i fight

This was never what i wanted

If i hurt you ever

Probably it was written that way

I just played my part.

This i unconditional

And this is from heart

Somethings are just NOT meant to happen and you were probably one of those.

Why should i quit my job , and go for my start up…

Its my Life

Its my Life , my boss don’t rule it.


Of being in a corporate world.

As everything corporate has given us is

” To worry the unexpected “

and ‘Doubt the most trusted”.

Quantify the losses,

and praise the bosses.

Silly sectary, strike in factory

Chase in rage, and roar in cage.

Is this why they left the job,

Chase the dreams, against the mob.

Most start ups, don’t make money,

Monetarily, they fail.

Success wasn’t  the only thing,

But parole out of jail.

Yes, i can feel , more of  me,

Happy, rhyming under the tree,

There is one life for all,

and no boss can decide.

Its purely YOUR CALL…

Deciding My Own Fate

Drawing of Life

               Drawing of Life

When i was just a kid
I started drawing images
Of what i aspire to be.

To be certain of what i am destined
And not juggling options,
Playing poker,
coz i thought it would be cool
to decide well in advance,
My own future.

I thought i would be a soldier
so i draw on paper, The Warfare
Then i wanted to be doctor,
To heal the wounds of war
Once i draw a judge,
To give justice to the right
And one day i thought
I could be butcher.

Sometimes i draw myself as a richer
driving long cars, visiting daily bars.
Sometimes i toss, to decide what i want
Sometimes in draw a farmer
Nurturing trees, feeding plants

Now i am old,
Still drawing.
Of what i want to be.

“Wish i would have realised,
i was destined to be a painter.”