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

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“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 )

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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 Pexels.com

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

Photo by Jill Wellington on Pexels.com

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 Pexels.com

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 Pexels.com


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

Photo by Andreas Wohlfahrt on Pexels.com


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 😊💚😊💚

The Cigarette


Photo Credit: Pixabay – https://www.pexels.com

(The cigarette is a monologue by a cigarette addressed to its smoker who is critically ill in a hospital )

There you stand, your living days numbered as that white-coated devil states. And I, with all my memory somehow keep forgetting it.

You were right about me.

I did want too much for myself; it’s always been that way and will still be. But it will be so, with only you.

And always with you.

How you have hidden my presence from everyone’s sight…As if I am an abomination to you? 

I lay here camouflaged, amongst your “Other” belongings. These Other… Things.

Things they are, of grim and gloom that have managed to separate us by telling you that these will keep you alive.. Just physically. That’s all.

Tonics, syringes,tablets,monitors.. oxygen tank? More like poison to your soul, are these Things of grim and gloom.

I know I am there, not at the back of your head as those white-coated people say. 

I am there, right there, inside your heart., seated with a rightful sense just as queen claims her throne.

Murmuring my presence away.

You hear me. I know you do.

Just as I can.

I can see you.

There as you stand, your breathing frail body covered in that grim green hospital robe. You are speaking to that white-coated devil with your thin hands trying their usual stance to complement the words that come out of your now swollen lips.

Oh, your lips!

Your smile … Let me not get distracted now.

But your perfect stark nose through which my soul so brushed with such agility and grace. 

Your stern eyes that carried such weight of your livelihood.That gorgeous forehead with sweet little lines of worry written across which I so helped to ease… 

That white coated devil, yes.. he was there, but then there you were. Your smile, which was not a perfect one. 

It was more than perfect.

I don’t want to be stuck with imagery of something ridiculously more than perfect, inside my head, for the rest the day. You see, I constantly live in the fear of having to wake up disappointed from those sweet satisfying dreams of you.

Disappointed as a result of having to realize, that it was all but a mere play of my imaginations with your darned lips. 

It’s not true, is it?

That you will stop breathing?!

That the body which I so joyously possessed and enthralling helped to ease and relax  .. that body? Will it cease to exist ??

Come to me my frail human .. Just come to me.

Let’s taste each other so passionately just one more and unfortunately the last time, as your days are small numbered.

And I, with all my murky memory somehow keep forgetting it.

The Copper Pot

Introduction: In Hindu funeral rites, the ashes of the departed person are kept in a pot before dispersing it at an approriate time into the waters of a river or an ocean. This poem is about a little girl who lost her father in a sudden way and how much she is used to having his strong presence around. I specially dedicate this poem to my friend who lost her dad, who was a wonderful support system to her and the family.

photo of father and daughter running at the park

Photo by Josh Willink on Pexels.com

The Copper Pot


A little girl lost her father.
To the family this sudden demise came as a shocker.

But to the little girl , she knew not a care,
As for her, father was just playing The Sleeping Princess dare.

A game which father used, to make her sleep.
The father would tell stories that would take her into fantasy world so deep;
That the little girl would end up sleeping without counting any sheep.
Her father used to hold her hand everytime.
He helped her stand, he taught her to walk.
He taught her to stay strong and be brave when people mocked,
Her father was always ready to hold her anytime.
The little girl knew her hand would always be caught,
If she ever let it out,
In search of support, love or doubt.
And so when the elders did the last rites and put him respectfully in a copper pot,
The little girl looked around to see her father but found that he was there not.

When the little girl with innocence asked about her father’s whereabouts;
Every elder around her solmenly looked at the copper pot.

And before her mother could say to her any more,
The little girl did put her fingers right into the pot’s core.

And with the puzzled look on her face , she tries her best to understand,
As she asks her mother ” Why is father not holding back my hand? ”


-Poem By Cynthia Monica❤

The Lamp (A small hope for an anxiety driven person)

She dragged her feet amongst the crowd spurting out happiness and glitter.


Photo by GEORGE DESIPRIS from Pexels

She carried her dark-self down the heavily populated lane seeking for the nearest dark alley to slip into.

But the festival crowd was so overwhelming. They pushed her. The crowd warmth turned into screams of her soul as they touched her. She was trying to avoid contact by covering every inch of her with the thin worn out sweater which already had so many tiny holes. She needed to find the dark alley as soon as possible before her demons completely overtook her.

She did not mind the demons overtaking her; she just did not want that to happen in front of others. She wanted to save others from her.

As she kept her eyes above the crowd, she spotted a lamp. Beside the lamp was the nearest alley. But the lamp was far away. Very far away… Yet she could see it. She kept her eyes fixated as her feet aimlessly moved forward.

At this point, the crowd was suffocating her. Some looked at her with a happy face expecting her to give a smile back. Some pulled her arm forcing it to be put it up in the air as an act of celebration. A celebration that she did not want to be a part of. Yet, she consoled herself with the sight of the lamp which gave her hope. A soft glowing hope that everything will be fine soon if she could only reach that lamp… If only.

She imagined having reached that dark alley where the lamp with its soft light alone covered her. That light could give her the warmth that crowd couldn’t. She imagined being crouched beneath the lamp, with her head resting against the lamp post. She could feel the content within her heart.

She could see her desire to feel complete being fulfilled beneath the lamp.

She right then realized that she had set out on a journey to find a dark alley to rest. But instead, found the idea of the lamp beside the alley so comforting.

She mustered all that she had to make her way through pressing crowd, carrying her demons within her. As for now she somehow felt the need to be with lamp more than ever. For on that night, the light of the lamp had won over the lure of the dark alley.

For on that night, she felt her celebration lay beneath the lamp.

The Weed and The Fishing Net.

Hello Everyone!  Have I ever told you why the weed in the riverbed and the fishing net can never live happily ever after?

I guess not.

Well, the story goes something like this …



Once upon a time, there lived a handsome fisherman with his very jealous wife.

The fisherman shouted at his wife “ All she wanted was a nice pink salmon. But you, my dear wife…”

The fisherman waves his hands towards her and continues his sarcasm.“My dear, adorable wife had to look at my customer with jealousy and shoo her off, with your words, which stunk worse than my dead fish!!”

A soup bowl, followed by 2 spoons and a plate, comes flying out of the kitchen.

The fisherman dodges the flying utensils.

“This!” He shouts “This stupid temper of yours, is not going to feed us.”

He picked up his special fishing net which had been resting in the corner of the room for quite some months. He holds it up in his right hand and points his left hand towards the net and says “This, on the other hand, is going to get the food on the table! I’d rather spend time with this net  than being in this house and…”

The wife’s shoe hits the fisherman right on his face.

A thoroughly embarrassed and infuriated fisherman took his net and made his way out of the house.

The fisherman along with his big, wide and strong fishing net reached the riverside . He took off his shoes and his shirt as the sun was on high and it was very hot. The fisherman pushed his boat and rowed towards a nice fishing spot that he knew of.

He threw his net and sat down with a frown on his face and started cursing his wife.

Deep below the surface of the ray kissed waters, the net sank. It sank slowly, easing out every vein of its mesh, almost as a dog would stretch its hind legs after a good nap.

“Its been a while since he had used me.” Thought the fishing net as it let the greenish blue murky river water pass through it.

The water was warm and the fishing net lazily watched a school of fish sweep close by .

A little far away, rooted in the river bed, was a weed . The fishing net noticed the weed. It’s enchanting green color had caught the net’s fancy. It’s stem so tender and vulnerable, clung  desparately to the grains of the riverbed sand . It’s head flung back and forth in its own gentle submission to the will of the mindless river .

“What a beauty!” Thought the thoroughly love-struck fishing net.

The fisherman cursed his wife once more and started pulling his fishing net up vigorously. The fishing net was devastated at this impulsive act of the fisherman.

And as the net was being pulled up , it could see that the beautiful weed’s head had finally turned towards the net. The weed could see the strong, perfect meshed frame of the net. The now curious weed could feel that the net so badly wanted to be with her, if possible at least have just one chance to touch the weed.

(They say water has the magical powers to communicate what one’s thinking in one’s head to another entity in the same water body.)

And as the fisherman walked back to his home to make peace with his hot headed wife, the fishing net’s heart sulked at the thought of having lost the sight of the glorious weed.

The fishing net hoped that one day it would get to see the same weed , get near to it and maybe even have an embrace.

Little did the fishing net know that even an embrace from the net could easily mean choking the weed to it’s death.

As life would have it , sometimes the act of love for one could mean the pure suffocation for the other. And that is why the weed and the fishing net can never ever be together.

– A fantasy tale by Cynthia Monica