We’re saddened by the passing of our friend Maya Angelou. Thank you for all you’ve done, and for all the hugs.


We’re saddened by the passing of our friend Maya Angelou. Thank you for all you’ve done, and for all the hugs.

74,958 notes


For luminous depth and sable thought are allies after all,

In the knowing of our tonight,

We shall lull our curiosity to slumber,

When my pen falls and my breath fails,

Will be the dawn you shall praise,

The tremendous tomorrows in my todays. 

Vermillion Vertigo

On the harrowing float of our guilt,
Ideals of the day can be built,
Never can we turn our back to the words we spilt,
Because karma blankets our conscience like a quilt.

On the shores of our thought like nuisance,
Working for an introspective renaissance,
To find the elusive soul of our essence,
In the soils of our mindless living presence.

The wounds of growth stay eternal,
The day will never return when our serendipity seemed perpetual,
Because the beauty of our past days are perennial,
We forget to live in the present that is superficial.

The mirage that is reality is a deception;
Because our lives are ultimately just a perception.

Maybe one day.

Maybe one day we’ll find the place where our dreams and reality collide,

In the showering innocence of our inner demons,

Beneath the dusty carpet of our deepest nightmares,

Around the incandescent corners of our soul,

Gliding in the ranging skies of our subconscious


Maybe one day we’ll find the place where our dreams and reality collide,

Where the sun of our sorrows never rise,

Where the dew of our triumph never dries,

Where the sapling of our thoughts never die,

So that eternity is just a mere measure of time


Maybe one day we’ll find the place where our dreams and reality collide,

When the horizon of our thought and reason coincide,

When wavelets of opinion subside,

When the notion of humanity presides,

Over the dominance and rule of individual I’s,


Maybe one day we’ll find the place where our dreams and reality collide,

Before it’s too late and we decide,

That life is better off perched in its own reality,

Of pragmatic  ` goals and mortality. 

Oh We’ll find the place, oh we’ll find the place soon.


Seasonal Shift.

In the wintry mist we lay,

Hoping forvever we could stay,

Young and fresh with our dreams on display,

And  wish these despondent worries away.

 In the spring scent did we flourish,

With the truth and tests that never tarnish.

Wondering whether the love and joy were just a varnish,

To the cooperate ghouls that fed on our souls to nourish.

 In the summer haze did we burn.

Scorched of faith that may never return,

With our emotions stuck in the broken urn,

Of lost opinions we didn’t earn.

 In the autumn noise did we joke,

About the thoughts and hearts we broke,

And the migration of sincerity did evoke,

Unrest to the life altering decisions we awoke.


Life is never a sidewalk, it is a rocky trial you create.
Tulasi R.

1 note

What Nature Teaches

“Life is never a sidewalk, it’s a rocky trail you create”.

The immaculate record of lessons Mother Nature has fabricated for us to decipher is awe-inspiring. Her wispy fingers turn the yellow tinted pages of her book to teach us, to reach out to us. Each tree, each butterfly, each ant is a inconspicuous lesson in our wake. It takes a deep introspective reflection to ponder on these myriad notions and to convalescence them into one.

The  most crucial lesson which repeatedly is scattered in her quiet teaching is the one about the trudge of life. Our lives are always going to be laborious, complicated and unnerving. Each trial is littered with rocks, each trail is unevenly laid, each trail is twisted indefinitely: a perfect analogy to life. Some paths are meant to be created which are the hardest to set a foundation to. Once they are laid, these paths lead way to a herd of novices. 

After enduring the supple suffering, Nature rewards you with the highest honors: serenity. The regal beauty of her lissome scenery could root your very existence to the spot. In life, every cumbersome obstacle is showered by triple the laurels. Life is never concrete, it is never smooth. It’s topography is ever-changing and constantly modifying and yet highly gratifying. Hence we must believe that Nature knows what our worth is while we arduously author our own paths. 

Words, worth.

The mighty power they behold,

Vanquished demons and conquests are made many fold,

The disintegration of our will and might,

Can be relinquished just by their sight.

The convulated expressions are merely their way of a moral transgression,

Because each predicament arisen for them is just a progression.

The discrepancy of their work is an accolade,

To the travesty of literature they serenade.

The propaganda of their persuasion is pervasive,

The levity in nature makes them evasive.

The penchant thirst of  knowledge requires their acquisition,

And yet many are wasted in futile deposition.

A characterless world is a nightmare to our subliminal minds,

Because their worth and our destiny are heavily intertwined. 

Only A True Poet…

Only a true poet can meander through life without losing thought,

Only a true poet can cascade words as though they were not wrought.

Only a true poet can transcend a listless day of leisure into insurmountable pleasure, 

Only a true poet can triumph truly over ethereal treasure.

Only a true poet can discern the imperceptible movements of a landscape,

Only a true poet can apprehend the meaning of life but not as an escape.

Only a true poet can congregate the voracious tidal of embellished emotion,

Only a true poet can afford to ponder over each wasteful conjecture and each lingering notion. 

Only a true poet can gape at the sky  in a dumbfounded expression. 

Only a true poet can comprehend that this world is just a green eyed deception. 


Amidst the breeze of wistful thinking,

Under the scorching heat of opinion,

Lay bare the corpse of human emotion.

Emancipated are the wings of free notion

who swelter and pelter until they cease motion.

The array of judgement sails through the fleet of pure conscience

To salvage the reckless deeds done by sheer reliance.

Yet still the quench of humanity remains unsatiated.

Because the  tide of selfishness has perforated.

The army of minds that have been decapitated. 

May her saviour be in the offing,

Or else we may just watch her decay and rotting.

Sable Fear

In multifarious ways does the world con us into believing that darkness is our enemy, that night is our nemesis. But what whispers convince us to believe so?

 The squalid ways it incapacitates our sense of sight? Or is it just bare human instinct to fear what cannot be seen? Isn’t that what our life goals ultimately converge into: safety et security?

The dark persuades us to raise our shields and wield for war. But why do we not treat light the same way? We say justice and fraternity are our prior morale, but does it stand invalidated for nature as well? 

Darkness is not our enemy, nor is light our comrade; they run in the same allies of deceit and fraudulence. 

To face darkness, a brandished sense of security must be revived. Thence darkness is just a metaphor that mirrors our worries. The true  discomposure crouches in plain sight: the future. 

How does the rain make me feel?

The fan-spread vista of turbulent rain has enraptured my thoughts and embezzled my beliefs, I cannot help but gaze at the downpour. 

So here comes my question, how does the rain make me feel? At first it is certainly this radiating contempt. A loathe emanating from the deepest corners of my thoughts. But why so? What sin hath the rain committed for me to feel so? What deed does it treasure for me to feel this abominable anguish which no man has made me feel as of yet? 

Thus analytically I can only befall on one conclusion. Obstinacy. My reluctance to change the frame of my thought, to let go of what has past and welcome the advent of a new season and a new reason. Rain cannot have done no deed wrong, and the Sun certainly hath not done me any favor. It had brought me perspiration just as the rain will only bring me drench. The false sense of insecurity, insecurity that arises due to lack of familiarity daunts me.

Must I confess that I solemnly do want to stand beneath the clouds and taste the sickening damp of nature. Does this desire of beatitude not unleash my crave for nature? Yet all of this is wrapped in the echo of my conscience. An echo beckoning to release my reluctance and consider my contempt redundant. Alas it seems like the virtue of the great is not above me and forgiveness is beneath me. Oh how I wish I could separate my intellect from my pure human desire.