I love people who smile at me. They expect me to smile– neither an affable orchid nor an ecstatic anklet, yet I smile. I wait after the congregation for my bus. I ride through the outskirts of my city– they smile at me, and I smile back. Bidya B.

[after the summer day by Mary Oliver] Who made these summer days? Who made these mangoes? Who made the bougainvilleas? Who made my Siberian cat— who is busy stealing my granola bars and tortilla chips? She scratches my thighs and stretches herself across my blanket. I don't know exactly what she wa...Read more

(After Mary Oliver) I worry most of the time, Will the mangoes rot? Will the marigolds wither before my twenty-first birthday? Will the Ebola virus take my life? And if not, what must I do to live? Have I been forgotten by God? Should I forgive people? How do I prove myself? Can I dance? Even...Read more

(after Mary Oliver) Percy smiles and whispers, “Hope,” while looking at the pregnant clouds, unbloomed lilies, and the calm shore— “Just hope that it will rain, the lilies will bloom, and the tides will relax your feet. Close your eyes and feel life. Grief is like a lit cigarette stubbed out on y...Read more

(after Alex Dimitrov) Today, I woke up at seven thirty and made myself an oats smoothie with one tablespoon of oats, half an apple, three dates, some flaxseeds, and half a tablespoon of honey. I was wearing a white oversized t-shirt with my favorite purple shorts, and I listened to Noah Kahan once...Read more

ChatGPT should brew your morning coffee not write your sunset poems, should massage you on every Sunday not take away your creativity everyday ; ChatGPT must repair my bike not write my book, should suggest me the best restaurant near me not taste the deliciousness of my art. Arrange my books, not...Read more

What doesn't kill you makes you brew coffee at 3:33 a.m. in a broken pot, with no sugar— yet it can’t taste more bitter than your tears. What doesn't kill you crawls through your bra straps to choke your throat— Somehow, you survive, yet something in you dies inside that broken pot and the cups o...Read more

I want to write some poems for those men who never had a dream, and for those women who never dared to dream. Dreams die and hope mourns alone.

Mom ! What's that you crave ? A warm cup of coffee, scented candles, rasmalai or sandwiches ? a latest phone, a new sunscreen, a pet or a beautifully clicked photograph ? your girlhood, your mother your crush’s smile or a trip to Europe ? a home, my first salary a beautiful gown or someone's love...Read more

Love is something about chasing butterflies in a stormy afternoon to keep them safe in an aesthetic jar to showcase to the world how flamboyant their wings are and giggling in front of people while displaying the effervescence. Confession - You forget to show the scars of love which are draped wel...Read more

if humans were mortal, they have gone since a long ago while battling for lands, waters and powers. It must be good to be extinct nor photo-framed neither worshipped never a danger for other creatures. Somewhere god whispers, “other ones have prayed for the destruction human beings”

I read about prayers I read about battles, i read about bullets and brooks I read about bloodsheds and benediction ; I cursed God for bringing human beings to this sacred earth ; I stayed quiet for a while, and again a battle starts in a while within me, outside me i couldn't control them God fl...Read more