creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, Writings


my existence floats
in a boat made up of dreams
over the turbulent seas of death.

the illusion of a charade.

the night’s scythe
cleaves my head:
blood with a famine of words
splatter all over the dusty bed-sheets.

The crucifixion of lies.

the boat trembles, seas rage.
With bleeding toes, my existence
inches towards the edges of insanity
laughing like a suicidal dog with
a growing distaste for chewed bones.

The Paradox of suffering.

I wait for an unheard laughter,
for the air to caress the wind chimes again.
It will all be over soon.
More the blood loss,  deeper the ink to write with.

Don’t you think?


© Shashank Bhardwaj

creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, Writings

See you in Hell

I once wrote for others
chaps so full of literature,
they would puke sonnets.

Women with legs
wearing beautiful stockings
looking like Ballads.

But they never read.
They were so full of themselves

and I wasn’t full of myself anywhere,
It took me a year of my life
to realize that
I won’t be full of myself
anytime soon.

You fuckers reading this.
Let me know,
When I’m Done.

creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Poems, Poetry, Writings



I remain after the destruction
and deaths.
I am what the end of the wars looks like.
When stale corpses transfix themselves
at the calamities,

I breathe slowly.

I remain at the edge of your loneliness
and suicidal thoughts.
When you look for ways to lessen your screams,
I creep into your void to dissolve your thoughts.
I am the hidden reflection in the mirror, you fail to notice.

I walk slowly.

I remain when your world comes to a standstill
over a pair of her eyes that overfill your voids
with dreams and desire and sometimes spaces
between your shadow and the soul.
I am what you forget when you are in love.

I disappear slowly.

I am the beginning of the world,
I am its end.
I am what you crave as well as fear
on the nights, alone.
I am the Wine that caresses your veins
and eats your liver.
Have enough of me, but carefully.
For, I die with you.

I die slowly.


© Shashank Bhardwaj

Pic Credits –  Jean Claude Berens



beauty, Death, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, sadness

A Mermaid’s Past


She only remembers the drowning.

the smell of the candles
put out with tears is a forgotten memory.

the wrath of the Poseidon trembled the sky,
stars disappeared in the hidden asylum of unseen alleys.

A dissolution of an ominous fear
of losing someone in a never-ending darkness.

A leap in the deep abyss
black hues massacres the blue
body with a heavy heart drowns
till the anguish warms the water.

At night, the colors resume their hibernation
in the lake of rainbows.

Search for the love, who promised
to come back now tastes like bitter salt.

a sharp tinge of regret on tongues
that lick the icicles of truth.


To be Continued.

beauty, creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, Writings

The Night’s a Serpent


Dark hues deliquesce
in the warmth of the burning stars,
the black cosmic sea now floats:
but still an abomination in eyes
of people spoon-fed with light.

Coiling and encircling the unseen ends
on the horizon; like Jörmungandr, the mighty serpent,
while winds hymn odes for the people
who drank in chalices sprinkled with stardust

The language of Aeolian is now have forgotten.
the constrictions of the serpent shall bleed
morning light in a few hours.

I will wait for the revolutions to complete
while caressing its skin through the desire
in eyes.

creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, think

Ashes of the Asylum

Even the benevolent breeze
spares the scattered ashes
of what was once an asylum
for flesh and bones trapped
within wandering souls.

They told me in school
that red and green fuses to yellow
but all I can see are the dark ashes,
the remains of the magnificent tree.

The birds cannot rest,
the dogs are dying of heat
and I can’t write my poems,
for I was a patient of that asylum,
it caressed my sanity every evening.

My poems have nowhere to go,
they don’t hide in the branches as they used to,
now they hide within me
and I hide inside them.