Is that small piece of paper

Which people scramble, tear

And throw away

From their car window,

Like useless scrap.

Yet it sustain

The slaps of wind,

Escaping the tires of troubles.


To get to

The other side of the road.

You are at least alive.

The paper,

It has no life,




Like that little chime of the coin

Falling off the pocket

Opportunities roam around,

In white and bright,

Always there to be picked,

Rolling down the floor,

The chime is a sign,

That little clue offered to you,

Take it or it will be gone,

Rolling on, in some corner

Of the sofa or the bed,

You’re COIN.


Ravaana Among Us

Ravaana Among Us

Not all bad men have dirty smell,

Suspicious looks, Rowdy beard.

Some are as innocent as it could be

Quite, not loud, Simple and Normal

You can not differentiate them

from the common,

Because, they are, but a part of us.

Filled with volcano of anger,

like that hulk, tearing clothes,

Starving to come out,

 Impatient , Breathing vicariously

Almost everyone of us carry one among

From the routine we live into,

making adjustments, and keeping smile

Just the anger, who can not sustain.

Yes, society is filled with so many Ravaanas