H Bhatnagar


It comes at me with daggers drawn
In those dark hours before the dawn
The first strike on the mind
The second on the heart
Slash, Slash and then it’s gone.

Gone, but oh, never for good
Leave me? It never ever would
I’m such an easy prey
And what a prized scalp!
Leave? Not even if it could

It bleeds me every blessed morn
With daggers my flesh roughly torn
And then I bleed myself
With my dagger each night
And cut on cut is borne.

When nothing of me will remain
Except a rusty, dried up stain
Then I might have some peace
Then the demon will leave
When death will ease the pain.

You can find more by this author on- https://hbhatnagar.wordpress.com/

Editor’s note– The author said that his writing had never been appreciated so much before, and it reinstated my faith in the blog, because that is what this was created for- appreciation and dialogue of emotions.


Sneha Sood


The musings of my mind
Will forever stay with me
Etched into the neurons and axons of my brain
Till the day it decays
They will then seep into the ground
Where the thoughts of the past lay too
Waiting to be uncovered by someone
Someone who cares to tell the stories
To an imaginary audience
In an imaginary theater
Of resplendent architecture
Where the halls will be filled
By echoes,
Of voices, songs, screams , cries
That were never heard
Each with its own fable to tell
Each an epic of riotous proportion
They shall be our own Iliad or Odyssey
But all still within
The salient corners of our silent dreams..

Artwork by Edvard Munch, The Scream.

Sneha Sood

I am not a constant
I am me
I am not the ice
I am the sea
I am a complexity
An equation
Unsolved by even me
I do not know where I start
Nor do I have a clue
Where I end
But it’s only a matter of where I want to begin
There are depths in me
Like layer upon layer
Of winter cloth
Strip me
Piece by piece
To reveal only
A darker keep
Dark are my thoughts
Interspersed with yellows
I am a medley of colors aplenty
But bleed I do
Still red
So vivid
I am a fragility
Be fooled not
By the black face
I am of glass
But I am unbreakable
A finality
I am me

I am me.

Editors noteThe last three lines are synonymous with  Plath’s quote in the Bell Jar– “I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart:

I am, I am, I am”

It is taken from the last chapter where the protagonist attempts suicide by drowning.


There was a boy.
He was a boy too. Once,

When he met You and held You
and wanted to make You his.
The night You said yes, he walked
in a frenzy of love and fear
and the future casts it’s shadows
and they grew heavier on the boy.
Now tell me,
You who were his love,
You who were his friend,
do You remember
that solemn, earnest boy?
Do Your eyes ever turn like his
to the heedless skies
and their laughing mirrors
of diverse scorn?
Do You ever dream of his dreams?
Do You feel his hurt
across the oceans? Do You see him
as he sees you, riding clouds
that rage fire, pouring flaming hail,
scorching the prairies of his heart?
Do You see the rubble
of the cities he built
for You and the future?
Do You see how small he feels,
holding the small man he has become,
in the palm of his hand?
Do You see his nights
turn the colour of cold?
Do You see him stumble
through the lonely wind,
the alcohol kissing his veins
and his mind like a room exploded?
His nights are a drunken
basket of the past,
mixing memories of You
with pain and new women.
He says his head staggers
with poetry and You
and I see his eyes
accuse You and a God
whose thick lips never parted
to echo the screams
of a lonely boy
whose life he carved
in agonizing slivers.
Pain should be
a prerogative of the old,
not eager bodies
enchanted with love.
At night when drunken rivers
loll through his bones,
and the world holds his hand
to whirl him around in loneliness,
as his heart pumps sickness
as from a sewage tank,
and his breath breathes breweries,
he seeks Your sanity,
the memory of Your voice
and the icy princess
who once was his.
As he reels under the weight
of promises broken, vows breached,
his loneliness holds hands
with sickness and shapes
a coffin to bury him
at Your absent doorstep.

Krishna Menon

Inspired by a photo of Sylvia,

Picture Perfect? 
Framed and frozen on the bedside table,
I see a woman smiling, the sunkissed dew in her eyes,
A memorable moment no doubt, I  remark.
“A picture speaks more than a thousand words,
but that doesn’t mean it speaks the truth”,
A voice whispers from my heart.
“Appearances can be deceiving,
How can you pretend anymore?”
,the voice drones on.
A topple and a crash,
 the shards of glass
scatter, the smile of the woman,
You can find more by this author on- https://krishmen07.wordpress.com/

H Bhatnagar

A beautiful poem about depression and our silent screams-

My screams

A silent scream is better
The voiced are so ignored
A mask of quiet better
Though pain can ill – afford
To hide behind such covers
And festers if so stored.

This bile is mine to swallow
This pain is mine to bear
This guilt is mine to compass
This dark is mine to fear
I scream in silence, sweetie
None should, nor want to, hear.

You can find more by this author on- https://hbhatnagar.wordpress.com

Image credits-  http://pictify.com/user/ANLEE1069/paintings

Tanvi Kusum

dried blood on paper

I am not at all impressive
Usually I am awkward
Unsteady hands, unsteady legs
Fidgeting in diaphanous frailty,
Smiling because it is acceptably human,
Mind is mostly devoid of funny, intelligent remarks.
My posture, a perfect example of my very apparent mediocrity,
My eyes today are fixed on my diary, probably the only thing I ever faced properly.
Here my blood runs freely,
The paper soaking the scarlet red of my disappointments, capillaries absorbing the pigments in a definite pattern.
Impressions, impressions, impressions,
I finally created an impression.

You can find more by this author on- https://tanvikusum.wordpress.com/

(Image credits-http://steveaishman.blogspot.in/)

Adora Faye Futol

Emotional Battery

He sits in silence, eyes wandering and ears glued on

the music playing in his laptop beside him. She sighs

and turns to him. They both know what it was but neither

one of them would like to taste the sour utterance of

the real score. Lie in wait, lie in wait. She thought to herself,

this is a way for them to resolve and untie the knot between

him and her, like trying to mend the seething wounds

of yesterday, scratching the scar and let the blood flow once more.



When they argue, things pretty much feel like

uprising of hell, spewing the hidden fires through

the mouth, the tip of a cone. His deep voice troubled her

as she hides away her heart, hushing the thunder.

Her voice in handcuffs, eyes sore from the blindfold.

He continues. Goes on and on, destroying her inner peace,

crumbling her to pieces, jarring whatever spirit is left in her

as she bleeds to near death; no light, no escape.



She takes herself to that secret place, where he

once calmed her troubled soul and broke the demons

that battle in her head. Make-believe was an ordinary place

she takes herself to—sunshine and rainbows, and shooting stars

glimmer in his eyes. Very softly he kisses her untouched lips

and she was kept, delicately guarded—safe and warm. But that

place belongs to that closed door now, shut before her face as

she trembles and breaks in fear and anticipation of its conclusion.



They lie awake, side by side. Neither of them wants to start

the fire that burns them inside. It turned to ashes what once was.

Adora is a memory traveler. Aspiring poet and novelist. Book drunkard. Believes that coffee is the ultimate elixir.

If you want to contact her, send us an email.

Carrie Viscome Skinner

Two Poets


I cannot weep
for the majesty of
their words –
they wrote them in
earnest upon the
wrinkled pain
of their souls
climbed their hills
in green and blue
pumps, stockings clipped
at their thighs
skirts hanging limp
from their hips singing
into the waves of
caressed sentences
they wove like starlight
over our hearts.
I will not weep
for their ended lives
clutched within the pages
of a selected poem.
I will make them pay
for their inspiration with
words of my own.

You can find more by this author on- http://faeriearth.wordpress.com

(Image by author)

John Walker

Death of a Poetress

Dear Sylvia,

The living suffer in silence
The dead don’t speak, but everyone listens
You turned blood into art
And helped however you could

You gave us direction, strange hope
Dismal, dreary poems were like a mirror
They showed us a bleak reality
If only I could tell you how grateful I am

Sylvia, it’s easy to judge
They never really listened
It’s easy to surround yourself with people
It’s harder to run from isolation

Lovely Sylvia, your poems are the secret we share
They’re not what analysts want them to be
The death of a poetress means nothing at all
Your prominent work is forever, even more.

You can find more by this author on- https://deadbluebird.wordpress.com/

(featured image drawn by Sylvia Plath herself)