Humans of Himachal

I’m no longer writing in ragefor I’ve exhausted it all. I can’t hold the tiny

I am loudbehind a tinted glass,a place where nothing really stays.I write about you in

I want to meet the first revolution and ask her if it was bearable? Was

We, as a society, I believeare the most spoiledconsumers of goodsbe it emotionsor objects. Together,

When I was born,I had the scent of my motherThe voice of my father,And eyes,

I personally believeit’s easy to rememberpeople as colours.Poets make theblue of sky,My friends are cheery

I’m aware of my privileges and the best one I have is literature.Seriously, nothing tops

Unboxing oneself/ is a long/never ending process. I dodge affection/ like bullets/ the thought of/

Yesterday I wrote a poem to the early spring.Flowers in my gardensoothe my heavy heart,every

What is summer if not the excitement brought by fragrance of spring tangled in cold wind,running through the