Posts by Cynthia

Writing things that sound weirdly awesome in my head!

The Pretty Worry Marbles

Photo by Artem Podrez on

The train honked in the distance. As I looked through the window of my bedroom, I tried to truly feel what it was to be stuck. The curry plant about the height of a toddler stood underneath my window. It shook from the gentle breeze. Stuck in a place, yet movement shown, my thoughts observed.

“Maybe I was doing it wrong. Was there anything that I ever did that was right?”  I contemplated.

“Ha ha! Nope. Not a single thing in your entire damn life!” The Inner Voice inside me replied.

I did not protest. Much like the horn that honked when the train engine driver pressed the honk button (a medium-sized, red in color, dome-shaped, “destructs everything –do not touch” kind of a button is what I am imagining it to be)

The horn on top of the train had no choice, it honked, be-Cause, the driver pressed its button.

Like so, I had no choice, I did not protest. I honked, I agreed with the Inner Voice. That I did not do anything in life that was right.

“Interesting…” Another silent voice felt.

I, being the horn that agreed to be tampered with, beyond my will, was passively listening.

So the voice that feels, continues. “They issued a warning that a storm might pass today, 11th of November. The air is icy and the branches of the curry plant are now shaking a bit more than the poetic nods of a daffodil.

Every moment, we measure. Measure with what we have seen before.

When the moment arrives, imagine not living in that moment. Instead, we sit down and spend that arrived moment in absolute comparison, milking of validation, of scratching and testing out the presence of gold like an athlete in ancient times.

Contemplation can throw marbles, like really pretty ones, made out of worry, born out of intensive measuring of simple life’s moments.”

At this point, the idea of being a horn on top of the Vagai Express did seem appealing to me anymore.Marbles, to be honest, the existence of these marbles bothered me.

“And when I say pretty, I mean like mysteriously pretty types.“ The Felt Voice continued. “Human nature is to spin between the grooves of a phonograph record. The priority stylus, which reads the track is sometimes acknowledged of its presence. At times, the importance of its presence is forgotten. In such an instance, The Pretty Worry Marbles track gets played. And before you know it, the vinyl glitches and that track about marbles get read, again and again.This is done in an attempt to try and understand the mysteriousness of these worry marbles.

And soon you are convinced that anything you ever did in the past or your present actions nor your future dreams possess any value.

The stylus cannot be blamed. It is the marbles you see, they like to be played with, admired… when you throw them at someone… ooh it can hurt! “

I responded. “What do I do?”

“Maybe try and not play with marbles.”

The curry plant outside now bowing down like a monk, the wind was getting stronger.

“Do I stop measuring?” I asked.

“Appreciate maybe.” Replied the felt voice.” Now when you are aware that you are stuck, it makes no sense to measure, yet work can be done. Work, that right now the “Inner Voice” will claim,  is useless, that your efforts do not matter in the present matter…and you will, with all your might, will want to turn into a train horn after listening to it

Put your head down and work. Do whatever you can.

The Inner Voice will proclaim that no progress has been made. Here you appreciate even the smallest piece of work that you were able to finish, keep adding them like stones. It is like building a fort. You keep going, you know the warships are on their way to your coast. You keep building that fort. One day, when there is no storm and you are no longer stuck, you will look at your fort and appreciate.

Appreciate that you made it out unstuck, appreciate that your fort fought those pretty mysterious marbles that were relentlessly fired from the worry warships.”

Another train honked.You see, I live near the railway lines .. No, I do not live near a marble factory, just in case any of you are curious.

However, I do live near a beautiful shore where I am building a fort now.

…And it looks good.



Letting Go- A conversation between the Mind and the Soul.

Photo by Josh Hild on

“You look dead to me!”, Said the Mind.

The Soul, was used to receiving such sarcastic derogatory commentaries,  from its supposed partner in life- Mind.

Mind sat on its high chair of Logic, crossed its sharp directional legs, and said   “Abandonment of an idea does not mean total loss.”

“I never said that giving up would mean a loss.” Replied the Soul slowly.

“Yes,yes.. you did not say so. Yet, over the years, I have learnt how you might feel and perceive situations that sadden you.”

Soul stayed quiet.

“Then maybe loss is not the word. Forgive me.” Said the Mind as it looked around the room.
Logic the chair stood on peach pink floors of Empathy. Mind looked down at the floor, frowned and said “If only I had the power to shift the chair to another part of the room.”

The floor of the room was divided into two sections, one half covered with pink tiles of Empathy and other half covered with orange tiles of Boundaries.

Mind looked at soul, “Disappointment… That is what it is, not loss”.
“You are feeling disappointed Soul. What you need to see is that, it is okay. It is okay that what you desired did not happen despite all your good intentions and my efforts.” Said the Mind, kindly.

Soul quivered and shivered. Its glassy eyes, filled with water memories…looked sad.

Mind got down from the high chair of Logic and stood near a picture of Nostalgia, which hung inside the room that they were in – room of Contemplation.

“Do you remember our trip to floor tile store , how we fought that day..!“, Mind fondly smiled.” I wanted orange tiles and you wanted these pink, Empathy ones. We finally decided to use both of those. As Mind was still looking at the picture, Soul started to slowly drag the chair of logic across the room over the part where floor tiles were orange , made of Boundaries.

Mind saw this and quickly went to Soul’s aid. They both placed the Logic chair onto the floor of Boundaries and then looked into each other’s eyes.

“Are you ready?” Asked, the Mind.
Soul gave a firm nod and sat on the high seat of Logic upon the tiles of Boundaries.

Soul then took out its beautiful tiny purses , beautifully embroidered with such intricacy…each weighing in tons of uncertainty.

“Purses of Expectations?”

Soul gently nodded as it handed them over to Mind. Mind took them and cast them, one by one, into fireplace of “Let Go” beside him.

Flames burned bright blue, black, then grey …

Then as the fire grew to become gentle white, Soul looked at Mind and mouthed,”Thank you.”

Mind smiled and said,

“Feeble you look , Feeble you are my soul..
But each of these battles has made you much stronger
Than the world will ever know.” 

Vault of Present Pleasures (A creative poem on fantasy )

Photo by Mudassir Ali on

Emerald coins, paperweights of Sapphire,
Moonstone crayons, Rose Quartz wires
A Peacock’s song in Othello’s cries,
Vivid Pastels glimmer via Van Gogh’s sighs
Into the vault of Present Pleasures,
Lay such fantastic unconceived treasures of Nigh.

Also lay herein dark translucent things…
Sea Shells with Whale Echoes and Wings,
Flew everywhere making Neon Bubble Rings,
As though Air indeed was Water,
And Patterns translated to Clutter.

Chaotic yet weirdly Orchestrated,
Breathed all these , each in its place,
Each charged and casting its own Charming Daze;
Silently causing me to fall in its Calm..
Almost asleep to sounds of Truthful Alarms,
My Eyes surrender & shut in the Sweet Lies,
Senses Lost in the vault yet Fantasize.

– A poem full of imaginations by Cynthia ❤️

Note: Hello there ! Thank you for stopping by my poem . I have something for you . 🎁💝🎁

Here you go , take some of these Turkish Delights . Trust me they taste good.. so go into your imagination , choose one from the picture below .. and just relish this sweet delicacy all the way from Turkey.. 😀😊

oh.. and do drop a like🌟 or comment 💌if u really liked my poem.. means a lot.. okay Bye…😊😊😊💞💞💞

Photo by Meruyert Gonullu on

Summer Soaked – ☀️☀️☀️A short poem about the Sun in summer.(Written out of partial respect and partial frustration)☀️☀️☀️

Photo by Jill Wellington on

Far from the coastline,
Right on the horizon,
Bobbing on waves of saline,
Lives the big fiery Sun.

Yellow , orange and sometimes pink,
Sets , rises , sometimes sinks.
Behind the clouds it hides…
On clear sky its rays rides.
It is not missed much in summers,
We think of it the most;
On cold winter days under our covers.

These days, Beautiful Sun,
You aren’t much fun.
Skin cancer and strokes,
Is surely not what we want the most.
A lil warmth , to dry wet clothes,
To grow crops for us and grass for goats.
That would be more or less it.
So please do not with your hot rays hit.

I really like you.
Yes i do.
But please just be right kind of warm.
For too much of you might do me harm.

Far from the coastline,
Hot and sweaty as i write…
Do take this plea of mine,
Please oh pretty please,
Sun , be a lil gentle with your shine

By Cynthia

NOTE: Hey everyone, if you liked my poem do give it a like.. and thank you so much for reading this childish poem.. i thought it was very basic , true and fun to write..

Also I hope you are doing okay wherever you are ♥️😊

Indian Instagrammers as COVID warriors ( A post on how Insta peeps helping right now in COVID -19 emergency situation in India)

Over the past few weeks the COVID-19 situation in India has been getting worse. Second wave they say , truth be told , the ocean of this pandemic has never been calm to begin with.

This post is going to be about influencers and in general people , whom I have come across on Instagram , who are doing a good job of amplifying the information that might help save people’s lives. People like Dolly singh , Khusha Kapila, Ankush Bahuguna, Manu Chaturvedi are just some of these kind hearted Instagrammers.

Availability and requirement of oxygen cylinders , Remdesivir , plasma and hospital beds, etc; are all constantly being updated in their stories.

The followers of these Instagrammers , DM (Direct message) them on their profile , the information is then , to best of their ability – verified, and then posted on their stories and sometimes even as posts on their profile.

Here are few screenshots of their efforts (Kindly ignore the picture quality) .

Yes they still create and upload content , but in the middle of all of that they also have managed to make content about staying indoors, wearing masks and even asking recently recovered COVID-19 people to donate their plasma as it might help someone.

Khusha , an Instagram Influencer , being in character of a mother and spreading the request of plasma donation in an entertaining but serious manner.

It is indeed truly heart warming to see them cheer us up in these hard times and also help out as much as they can.

In this , what “seems” to be , endless battle against the virus , we must also be grateful to the doctors , nurses , hospital staff and not to forget all the sanitary workers , almost everyone who are risking their lives to save lives, for they literally could run away from the scene and think about their lives first.

But they are there…Still standing , Still fighting for all of us.

NOTE TO READERS: Please stay safe , and hang in there my fellow earthling , we will get through this … Sending love, positivity and prayers for each of you out there in this world ! ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

Tea for my soul ( A short poem on tea.)

Photo by Meruyert Gonullu on

Oh beautiful brown liquid..
So sweet and tepid.☕

You fondly remind me…
That eventhough life is full of blimey’s!😱

I can still take a break.
Bring in your friends: biscuits and cakes.

And genuinely feel that, life is all good.
That I am doing the best that I possibly could

-Poem by Cynthia

(Above Photo by cottonbro from Pexels)


Thank You so much for reading my poem on tea, it was literally inspired by a cup of tea that i was drinking.. hehe 😀. Yea I drink more tea than coffee..

I hope you my reader are doing okay in these tough times ❤️.. just hang in there 😎

And in case you like tea..I am sending you a virtual cup of tea to feel good about yourself . Here you go.. 😊

Photo by Olga Mironova on


Unpreserved Love. ( A poem about that ‘love’ which was never cherished.)

Photo by Andreas Wohlfahrt on


Feed the moon my poetry.
Tie my soul to your last blunder.
Follow my cries into the fathomless sea,
Watch me laugh with the every thunder.

The galaxies crumble at your door,
Looking for hope within your soul
Alas, they found you empty ,deep and above.
For you failed to preserve a gift so rare such as love.

Feed the moon my love drenched poetry.
Don’t stop until its drunk enough.
It wont be accused of gluttony.
For there is no limit to a universe called love.




You! Yes you who just read my poem.. please stay safe, i am glad you are alive and this is just a reminder to tell you , my lovely reader, that , things will get better. 😇😊😊💚

Oh, and if you like my poem , do press that 🌟 star/ like button.. It helps me a lot.. Take care my fellow beautiful souls 😊💚😊💚

AFAR – A poem about the love between “Callisto” ( one of Jupiter’s moons) and a “tiny space rock”(one among the numerous particles found in the Saturn’s ring)

Photo by Skyler Ewing on

I saw through my telescope
With my one foot in the air , totally surpised,

I witnessed Callisto elope.
With a cute rock covered in ice.

They jumped and circled ,
Their love signals sounded garbled.

Free from the pull and force…
They floated very near to Milkyway’s doors.

“Password” grunted a Policing star.
The couple giggled and showed their scar.

A massive part of them had gone,
As they left the places from where they were born.
Gates were then opened ajar.
And the two giddy celestial beings floated, excitedly, Afar.

CLARITY ( A Poem on Schizophrenia )

Photo by Daniel Torobekov on

I met a man.
As hollow as a canoe.
As heavy as a grindstone.
As lost as a cloud.
As silent as a mad crowd .

“Hush” he yelled.
To the crazy voices in his head.
“No, you are wrong!” he said.
Later he explained “Her soul is infrared!”
“Run” again he yelled.
“Hide” he whispered this time, and shivered.

I looked at his tear laden face,
The world called him insane with haste.

He looked at me with wide blank eyes,
Held his hand out and showed me hair ties,
A woman’s , i assumed,
His love’s perhaps which must have doomed.

I met this man as dazzling as the sun,
It seemed as if he lived in confusion.
But he was as clear,
As a bright stark ray,
And hence;
He could easily tune ,
Into the frequencies
of every abandoned soul’s ruins.

He gathered the debris.
Listened to all the voices carefully…
Arguing with some,
Reasoning at times understanding with some..
All this does leave him feeling numb.

But he chooses to listen to these,
One day he will get to listen to his own voice,

By Cynthia.

Hii !! To you who just read my poem : If You ( a.k.a an awesome human… I just know it and do not ask how 😊) like what you just read, Please do give this poem a like or a comment .. It really helps me ❤️❤️😊😊

NO ONE TALKS (A Poetry On Suicide)

Photo by Akshar Dave on

No one talks about suicide, no one talks about death,
No one talks about the staunch sadness lingering at the back of our heads.

No one talks about the pain that our tear ducts bear at night
Atleast can we talk about the mere loss of will to just try and fight?

Maybe we could , maybe we should..
Maybe we would if only we could be understood.

For what we are seems exaggerated at times.
Those looks and judgements of others brand our thoughts as crimes.

Maybe we should , maybe we could…
With a bit of kindness, voluntary time and an open mind,
Maybe .. just maybe we could be understood.
Maybe you could help us reveal what we so fiercely hide.
We are not abnormal or unusual or mentally sick.
Neither is it a choice to stay this way, do we consciously pick .

We do not need help “first”, as people say,
It’s the acceptance of just as we are do we so earnestly crave.

Even as we look at the stars waiting to be one with them..
Do we secretly hope that this belittling sadness stays within this realm.
Even people like us, deep down, actually do want to let go,
But with this unknown suffocating heaviness, we cannot go on anymore

By Cynthia

Hi there! If u like my poem ,please do give me a like or a comment .. it really helps me ❤️ 😊