Book Spine Poetry

April is National Poetry Month! While I would celebrate by sharing books from my favorite poets, I found this idea to create poems with book spine poetry: in a dark, dark wood, Eliza And Her Monsters, speak The Things She’s Seen. A Child Called “It”, Boy, 9, Missing, A Water Dancer. The Weight of Silence…

sometimes, pain can only be understood when it’s read in between the lines as our minds try to comprehend it for the hundrenth millionth time and we are left speechless, dumbfounded, our hearts rendered indifferent is it too much to say I don’t care anymore


Dearest, i’m sorry forbottling up my emotions wheni was supposed to set them free i thought that if i remainedmute i wouldn’t feel theirpresence, butin the end i isolated myself fromthe rest of the worldbut more so from the rest of me i stopped writingand thusi forgottolovemyself

Picking Flowers (and weeds)

I bet my children’s parents never have to worry about weeds in their yard. Because these kids…. they pluck every beautiful flower (or weed) they see. Instead of playing they’re busy picking flowers for their mommies and daddies ❤❤, wiping their pollen-stained hands on their clothes, their hair whipping in the wind, their eyes shying…


when i drown, the riptides pull me in and then push me out, bellowing, and i, like an echo, reverberate, colliding into others until i finally reach the shoreline. sometimes i am merely a whisper, my words muddled, and sometimes i am the wave crashing in.

Published Poem

I recently submitted a poem to Robi, an online literary journal, by Bangladeshi Identity Project. As it says on its introduction page, this journal in intended for the Bengali diaspora by the Bengali diaspora. It’s for us Bengalis that belong there, in our native country, but call this place our home too. Despite speaking our…

An Ode

Wind, Your serenade makes the leaves twirl about, Twirling and twirling and twirling As if their feet just can’t stop dancing, The blades of grass running across the ground, In mindful chatter, As if time is of the essence. Where are you all off to? With outstretched arms, trees reach up to be caressed, Their…


people say that laughter is the best medicine but why does it hurt so when you use it to push all our problems away


The art of anger rests on expression The art of breaking rests on how much you let yourself give in I sometimes wish I could make a hole in the wall, smash everything within my peripheral vision I’m a volcano, molten lava seeping out from my skin But the art of release doesn’t mend what’s…