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Chandini (Rogue) βœŒπŸ˜„

PO# 545437
With your feet on your head and your brains in your shoes, you can steer your life anyway you choose :)
July 25, 2017


Can we live without death,
Can we love without hate,
Can we want without need,
Born to just die ...

If hate is whats inside me,
Then hate is what defines me,
I will use my hate to drive me,
Let death not deprive me ...

Do I want this or do I need this,
Feeding off poor souls,
Pale pigments caused by my presence,
Forgiveness is earned not given ...

Climbing up a ladder in an upside down world,
Looking in the eyes of darkness,
I stand in front of a mirror,
Ashamed of nothing ...

What comes out from within can cause suicide,
Armageddon in the form of humanity,
A world without chaos is a world that's non-existent ...

Asking for forgiveness to be hypercritical,
Sin will...

July 25, 2017

Without words, how would you feel? Somehow, it makes reality seem less real. It confused me at first but it all makes sense now. How, we pick a part and start acting it out.ο»Ώ


August 30, 2016

#Skylark Challenge 50 ❀
Words used: Pinnacle, Sharp, Climbed, Flailing, Fifty(50)
I climbed up
The podium,
The pinnacle of truth.
Throwing a hundred and fifty
grandiose words.
A feeble voice rose:
Thin, sharp and inarticulate
truth was flailing me.
Whispers became war cry,
For truth is a lion
Which cannot be pet.
PS: ο»ΏThank you Rebecca, for all the awesome challenge words you come up with every week! Sorry for not being able to write regularly, these days. I am glad the Skylark Challenge has touched 50
And thanks to Drew for the stamp!

July 14, 2016

Dear reader,

In case you were wondering,
or had no clue,
I am writing this poem
just for you.
Every word,
every phrase
that falls softly upon the page –
all attempts to engage –
yes, it's true.

Shall I whisper instead?
Will that do?
Upon your ear
let my secrets debut
close enough that my breath
rouse the hairs on your chest
where my cheek longs to rest

and on that cue ....

While I'm here,
I'll draw hearts on your skin;
write the words
that can't come from my pen;
let my fingers relay
what my heart wish convey;
be the light of the yang
to your yin.

There you have it.
It's all been construed
like initials in a heart tattooed
with high hopes.
I do ...

July 14, 2016

"I fell in love with you at the very first sight. Waited for weeks to make you mine. And now, you just aren't what I thought you were", he complained at the online product that had disappointed him.

July 14, 2016

"Oh my, she looks so ugly!", exclaimed the 3 women sitting next to her in the bus.

"Mummy, that lady looks so scary", said the little kids.

Silently inside her head, she whispered "I bet the ones who threw vitriol on me were uglier and scarier"


June 15, 2016

"I love you" and his name written below the structure of amino acids.

Funny, she chose her textbooks over him but he was all over her textbooks.


June 3, 2016

*Maybe Flowers*

Objects, apparently
inoculate some neutrality
among people.

The simple presence
of a table between strangers
or a glass vase
a glass, a clean, transpicuous, empty glass.
Maybe flowers -
flowers mean much more
than the space they
Their invisible moistened arms
embrace strangers;
their color
speaks of composition;
their scent
becomes an addiction.
Why not the sun
The sun will undress
strangers and make them
in liquid blank verse,
in blind sentences
or even melt
the bodies, the objects.

Guns too, are objects.
Too often found on tables
between strangers.


May 15, 2016



These are the voices in your head.

They fight against each other, each trying to prove they are right, creating a vortex in your head that can't be suspended so easily.

How will I survive? I don’t want to be reliant on anyone.

No! My parents and friends will help me, they'll will look after me, because they WANT to.

But, it will eat away you, slowly, the other voice responds.

So? So what? I can handle it, I shout. No no, the voice in my head shouts.

Your white blood cells are no longer you friends, they’re scarring your nerves, another laughs.

No longer is it a fight for the loudest thought.

No. Now it is just ...

April 22, 2016

Like a stained lens
Not as focused as
I should be.
Too many hypotheticals
Too much time wondering
What I could be.
Life is crazy but best lived
Out loud.
Who wants to be just another
Face in the crowd.
Life is too beautiful to
Let my dreams go up in
I see the light at the end
Of the tunnel and move
With hope.
Forward progress through
Struggle helps me to cope.
For if negativity gives me
Enough room to hang myself,
It's simple, I just cut the rope.

April 14, 2016

Words used: Psychiatrist, Rug, Plausible, Dreaming
Poem by a 17 year old Rogue
Everywhere I go these days
my thoughts are filled with dragons.
My mother asked to the psychiatrist,
"What's the matter with her?"
The psychiatrist said I was living
in Dragonia.
My mom asked if there was some pill I could take
that would keep me from dreaming of such a place,
wrapping a rug around my funny shape,
returning that worried look to my childish face.
The psychiatrist said, "She'll ge...

April 12, 2016

"One Fine Day"

Go ahead.
Speak for all you wish,
Oh, heartless tongues.
For, now is yours.
Though, not forever.
You own no feelings. Fine.
But, there must be a wicked mind.
To it, I say,
There will be that glorious day,
When I could boldly speak,
For all i am worth,
That I was born to be.
Never will I ever be
A stone as you had been.
For, I know what it feels like,
To be trodden right upon,
After all these hard times.
Need no clock beside me
To guide my way.
Will have my time, in my hands,
One fine day.


April 9, 2016
Chennai, India

WORDS USED: Misted, Pausing, Mistaken, Critical

I'm drinking with Death
Under a toxic moonlight
Drunken and mistaken
Pausing in the buzz within my nightmare
Darkness falls as my mind dissolves
Thoughts slowly slip into limbo
Or maybe that's the name of the bar we're in?
We decide not to drink gin
We drinking some goo called fallen angels
Death's critical drink of choice
Toast after toast
My eyes become blackened not red
All I can see is a misted darkness

               .....2 HOURS LATER

Death begins reciting poetry

February 19, 2016


GodΒ asked me toΒ choose this paper
fromΒ theΒ thousands thatΒ I found,
this dark and cloudy sky
cut by light beamsΒ to the ground.
God said, Β "scribble a little something
telling themΒ things willΒ be alright,
and not to waste their lives caught up
in fears and wasted fright."
Then God suggested I call this verse
"let there be light."
The afternoon slipped by somehow
and soon its past midnight.
Sitting at my phone
I tap someΒ keys and start to type.

(b. happy)ο»Ώ


PS: Stamp sent by Pooja. Thank you dear 😘 😘

February 15, 2016

Words Used : Risk, Honesty, Flight, Ticket

Now I shall write A REMORSEFUL RANT

I wonder if eagles complain
toΒ the same creator that made the poet.
Because hereΒ she stands,
a featherless being
fashioned by the same
unimaginative creator
that designed the eagle.
SheΒ had a rough day yesterday
and wanted so just to take FLIGHT.
Why can'tΒ she just fly away from it all?
why wasn'tΒ she given wings
or at least several flight TICKETS good for anywhere
international flights travel to?
SheΒ wants to go where
no one can follow her,
watch her, and decide who she is
based upon rudimentary observations.
Observation one.
The poet appears to be a hopeless romantic
calling herself a lover i...

February 11, 2016

Words used: Cello, Polished, Ruby, Bow.


I penned a perfect poem last night;
hummed it as I hid it in my pocket.
I wake up this morning despair,
only to realize it's not there.
Was it just a dream?
Where's the poem I wrote?
Did it get lost in my dark vision?
Oh no, did it get burned by the bright morn sun?
Find me my poem, please!
Or give me back my dream at least!

Where will I find it?
Should I sleep and dream again?
I close my eyes-
my thoughts-
get played along the distant CELLO tunes,
that remind me of your whispers;
disturbing the waves all around
disintegrating amidst all the crowd.
Where do I find tha...

February 8, 2016

"At a Better Glance"

At a better glance we're all dust
Β - photographs, marbles, headsets in order to
listen to
time and memory
an internal clock ticks the influx, reflux
of bloodΒ 
in me.
I watch itΒ 
manoeuvring around while
Earth - twisting light -
insists on her perpetual movement
and you
with your wet fingers
carefully blamingΒ 
the Sun, killingΒ 
the Moon
smothering Β whichever aliens dare to
come close
thirsted for human's love formula
simply let it keep falling as if claws spoke
harder than feelingsΒ 
and a weightless rain prevented
the universe from
its particles

At a better glance
your tears have moistened your skin
covered with

~ Rogue

January 29, 2016

In front of a mirror
With eyes closed
Fearing the reflection
Of all the lies I've told

In front of my mirror
Slowly opening my eyes
Afraid of its truth
Afraid of its lies

In front of the mirror
With eyes wide open
Facing the pain and suffer
Hoping for hope and dreams

Now I can say I'm strong
Now I can say I'm true
I'm facing all my problems
Me, myself, the mirror and you


January 28, 2016


As a soft wind.
Blowing through my windows.
As a mild flow of water.
Of the beloved streams.
To wash my soul from sorrows.
You came into my life.
Silently touched.
My deepest corners.
A hand can not dipped.
Just the same place.
In a flowing river.
Your silhouette is being faded away.
With a sigh in my heart.
A mirror is broken.
To steal you from my dreams.
I can feel your steps.
Walking away-far away.
In my hopeless seeking.
The last time, my heart is trembling.
Holding my last gift.
Derived from my true heart.
A bouquet of the tiny humble flowers.


January 27, 2016

I sit in the midst
Of crumpled pages
Broken verses;
Pale white paper
Spread everywhere
In the room like
Dead autumn leaves,
And when I wade
Through the fallen words
The sound is
Like wounded whispers
Of your name,
Unanswered across centuries.


January 5, 2016


Maybe it begins in the fingers
or maybe it begins in her heart;Β 
dark thoughts bring
fingers piling high the cart she drags
from town to town,
filled with empty promises
and spaces where dreams
are perhaps too smart to linger
along the fixed paths that oftenΒ travel
like memories of savory spice
to the ends of the road.
Long unpainted fingers write
the awkward questions around
mouths tasting of orange,
speaking a response that says,
"perhaps I am no prize after all."

β€’β€’~ Five rogue fingers ~β€’β€’

January 4, 2016

Dear readers,

The world is coming to an end.

The air is polluted. The ocean is contaminated. The animals are going extinct and the economy is collapsing. INTELLIGENCE is SHUNNED and IGNORANCE REWARDED. The people are angry and depressed: "We can't live with each other while we can't even live with ourselves". So everyone is medicating.

We pass each other on a street and if we do, by any miracle, speak, it's meaningless robotic communication. More people want 15 seconds of fame than a lifetime of meaning and purpose, because... what's POPULAR is more important than what's RIGHT. Ratings are more important than the truth. Our governments build twice as many prisons and thrice as many pubs ...

January 2, 2016

"The Fishes That Carry Wishes"

I went to my favorite pond yesterday. The one nearest the stone walkway, opposite to the Shiv temple, close to the place where the rare cuckoo nests.

I saw a little girl there with her father. They were standing along the water’s edge, watching the fish cluster below.

β€œIf you whisper a wish, they’ll all come around,” he smiled. β€œto carry your wishes back to the wish genie.”

The little girl scampered quickly to gain a better view. And, with all the might she could muster in this world said, β€œI wish for more days like today.”

Without missing a beat, the father tapped the metal railings – the sound, drawing the fish even nearer.

β€œOh, Appa look!” she ...

December 30, 2015
Chennai, India

#Skylark Challenge


Don’t ever fall in love with a writer
because you will never die.
Anything you ever said or risked
will live on and on and on.

You will become nothing more
Than a series of metaphors
One page after the other
That anyone and everyone can see.

Your eyes will become the moon in the sky,
An island of hope in a sea of remorse.
Your long tresses will get compared
To silk and feathers and honey.

Don’t ever fall in love with a writer
Because we will make you immortal.
All the happiness and pain you caused
Will live on and on and on.

If you broke our heart,
The pain will get amplified
Because w...

December 29, 2015
Chennai, India

"Freedom of Words"

The people stormed and clattered
Around the pile of books and scrolls
And as the soldiers came with torches
A mob began to form.
And as the mob roared loudly
The general on his horse gazed around
And at his barking order the soldiers
Threw their blazing torches down.
And as the pages caught on fire
The books began to burn.

But a book is an idea
That can never be destroyed
But as cosmic, fluid energy
Is reincarnated into another form.

Standing 'neath steeples
Or the vault of concert halls,
On a soap box by the street
Or a grand big podium,
Men and women who have caught a fire
And have died to see it rung
Be more powerful than thousands sitting
Although they be standing al...

December 28, 2015
Durg, India

Dear Chandini,

Are you a born writer? The ease of your playing with words is amazing. I'm sure you would have written articles or stories outside letters too. Let me know if there is any blog or anything where I could read more. Not only me but there would be many who definitely got addicted to your way of writing.

And regarding novel writing, believe me, just write one... πŸ˜‰πŸ‘


December 28, 2015
Chennai, India

WORDS: JASMINE, BUTTON, DIGNIFIED, TWISTED (What an exciting choice of words Rebecca... thank you! :)

Dear world,

We never notice it, do we? Surrounded and fooled by such people every time...

We look at those neatly pressed and buttoned down shirts, their confident eyes, deceptive postures, soft hands and we assume their personality is as dignified as their looks are.

What we don't notice is their instincts. Nothing in this terribly transient time ruled world is permanent. People change. People change all the time. For better or worse, depends on their instincts.

You see, people's characters change, but their instincts don't. Like to believe it or not, there are alw...

December 27, 2015
Chennai, India

"December Refugees"

It's December now
And the old stone gray sky is coughing
Up season blood and spitting
Down on me
On my head on my shoulders
On the backpack I carry
Like a wooden cross across campusΒ 
And the golden green trees are crying
Crying on a girl I passed by
She was in early October
And I fear the water and the mud
And the daylight savings
Dark surprised her
With a Judas kissΒ 
So she was crying
Crying and not to anyone in particular
Nobody and herselfο»Ώ

~ Rogue

December 23, 2015
Chennai, India


So deep, unimaginably so
So lost, undesirably so
So given, relentlessly so
So misunderstood, knowledgeably so
So far, unbelievably so.

I am so...
Beyond life, beyond death
I walk so...
No one can trace my path
I speak so...
With no words, no language
I fly so...
No wings, no clouds
I see so...
No eyes, visibly invisible
I cry so...
No tear, just the voice within.

I have crossed the line,
No more boundaries,
No more frontiers,
Deeper than my mind can judge,
I am unreachable.

---β€’ Rogue β€’---

December 23, 2015
Chennai, India

She liked such days; warm and convenient. She could hide from mayhem. Her favourite hiding spot as a child was the old, rusty trunk abandoned in the covert seeming attic. She had discovered the attic only months after moving into her new home. The covert now earned a new definition, plausibly sophisticated and cryptic for minds that still resorted to old, rusty trunks to conceal their brave secrets.

Her room was attached to the spacious verandah, overlooking the only little lake that inhabited the town. Living in the sheer outskirts hadn’t been her idea. Her room was effulgent, open, the only thing known to her that would classify as antithetical to her insane claustrophobia. The positives w...