I know you are gone , you are not in Botswana nor New York. I know you were alive for me in those months when I wrote to keep my self alive. We spoke three times and I promised a Skype call that never happened. You actually got a hair cut and wanted to see me. I liked your comments on my blog , I searched for your blog and commented on all your blogs , when you stopped commenting on mine. That is when you reached out , I did not know Yoruba , I tried Swahili since I wanted to speak to you in your language. You were amused. You always knew to communicate with me almost like a song…. remember prince ? And the way you played ” You tell all the boys no , it must make you feel good” You knew across all those miles that I was lonely with a mission to clear my name. I was lonely because I was misunderstooond. You understood everything. It was discovery , when we explored each other’s creative writing. I came close to the truth. When you could not write because of  pleural effusion due to metastatic lesion of the lung. You finally told me the truth.

i will die with out you ……… sings on the X box

Thank you .

love Priy




Why is it always speculative or imaginative ?
Till that also ends, like reality.
Will it ever end ?
There is no end to imagination
But reality has an end.
Imagination can also be killed.
She looked up from her note book , yes they issued search warrant for my imagination , used it against me. Did it work ?


I have many selves.
Yet they are not fragmented.
I can recall the skills of a self and also her pains
with out crumbling anymore.
Whether you get the whole of me
or just the part that you can handle
Is entirely up to you.
Search me completely
There is a lot in me
You would spend a life time.
I am your harem
But sex comes last.
It is not the password.

Without Language.

There were so many reasons why I transferred what I felt and felt what I never felt. Similarities in suspecting me and suspecting me of every possible illness , a firm belief that abuse does not make a victim , instead a victim was always a victim because of a mental illness. Making me doubt my self , as though I was mentally ill. Reduplicating abuse , to make me say “No” or “Yes” ?
With out language everything is confusing.
I tried to make sense of it alone , but it reached nowhere.
It was abuse , it was violation of boundaries , however decently done.
Was I obsessed ? No. I gave up on trying to make sense.


I hurt you because
I did not heal
And I had the gall to see…..
I could not have pressed the
Benjamin button nor
Go to the Year of the cat
Turn back the time
And erase the Random Accessible Memory…
I could hug you over phone
You made that viral!
I wrote a poem to let you recover
You used it as evidence!
Sigh …or song none were spared……
All my strengths became vulnerabilities
I felt no lust for a man
For whom love was dispensable.
I frankly want to forget an affair
That never happened
Except in your head and
On my white dry paper…..
I have served the sentence
For writing poetry.

Love Bound

I am not that sort of person , nah just to show anger towards a man , I will not find another man. My love is never an expression of anger. Besides I get angry very intensely. I am like a volcano I burn the one who caused anger. I close that chapter. Not that there is blood shed or anything……. it is truly over. Then I live in that ruin. I wait to feel again. I am not an echo , I do not rebound. I am a whisper that you wish you had listened after you lose.


“What we truly see is what we are ”

There was a hermit staying in a hut outside a village, he spent all day in prayers, teaching disciples and counseling those who sought his wisdom. A prostitute stayed in a mansion built outside the village where she entertained her clients , she stayed opposite the hermit’s hut  claimed that all souls were equal in the eyes of God. When  they both died , hermit’s soul was in the cauldron of hell and prostitute had attained eternal bliss. Hermit asked the God of death , why such an injustice was done ? God smiled and said , recall your thoughts , recall your vision …You were constantly imagining the carnal pleasures that clients of the prostitute enjoyed , while she listened to your teaching and ardently prayed for me, even asked for death as a blessing. Hence she is with me and you are in hell……..

Moral – Intentions are more important than actions.



You made mistakes , you never knew how to handle the situation at all, I did not know my own self nor my value. In that suffocating bed I had to create a song,even if it was in the springs of the cot or wooden legs. I had to find an imaginary companion, it could not be a stony God. I tried even that. I searched with in, there were songs I had to suppress, dances I could not dance, I had to tie up my legs. Drama was so real.It was not drama at all. Why was I not enough? I had this expanding concept of loneliness, so I searched for a twin. You made it so sexual. I had to reaffirm that it was a mind. You made it so physical , I had to say it was not a body just a soul. Now, you lost my soul. It is in my poem.