the pleasure of selfhood

it is falling like a sun-pigment, down
with three-eyed cues to evoke sentiments,
bringing the yellow with orange with brown,
and the toil of ball-clay-modeled laments.
it drinks the warmth and bathes in lasting sin-
full holds of my fine-textured, genteel hands.
it is the hue that pigments my blotched skin,
and reminds me of the last rain’s soaked sand.

it is the sheath to my patterned truths — pain
that rests and rumbles in wakeful sleeping.
it is the ferrous wonder of force — gained
with a compliant resolve for melding
hopes and despairs with an equal measure,
and dreaming of an eve’s ochrous pleasure.


© Anmol Arora 2018

A sonnet (Shakespearean rhymes, sans iambs) for With Real Toads’ Weekend Mini Challenge
Image source (Subtle Ochre by Raju Durshettiwar)


I have been working on a new Insta handle for over a month now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

This Hunt

nearing night, a shadow falls
into the uncomplicated arms of
twilight, the sun still sets,

there is a dark smile of an angel
that descends into a flood
submerging all the air, into

you extinguish the flame, by
a flick of your wrist, I sit
in the womb of a couch,
feeling for a tentative touch
to relinquish all desire.

a breath transcends when you
look at me like a fierce lion,
waiting for the right second to
pounce, and smear your paws
with my blood, and into the moon
eclipsed by a shadow of this hunt.

A shadow of transfixed and
curved delight.


At With Real Toads, Grace introduces us to the verse of the Mexican poet, David Huerta. Inspired from his writing and using one of his lines(translated by Mark Schafer), I wrote a few words. This is at best a first draft.
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU as well.

Art by Karen F. Rose

Unseeable Identities

you are that unseeable identity, that

if I could touch you, I’d have to believe

that the stars have convulsed my destiny,

into a deep dense breath that passed

through your lips the last, which if I

could, I would store in my thought and

cling to you, stopping in your tracks,


but never did I know that I am helpless

and you were as well, and the story did end

the way it started, in anonymity of self,

by the destructive divulge, that dearth of

the flower of empathy that never sprouted,


its seed lost, smashed under the wheels

of your car, and your words did it all,

they hit my face with a blunt force and

I do not bleed, I am just left with shapes

of your anger, painful to sweetening while

the tears sting them with my obsession

over what was there, so trivial once,


now buried in mounds where a cactus grows up

surrounded by hills, it, you, everyone is still

alone and I am alone cherishing droplets

of blood that sprout out of my palms as

I longed to touch your identity and did,


still left without knowing what is that

treacherous triviality which made it so

that I ache to hear you in the dark so

that you can pull me to where you are

and make me a cup of tea and we talk

throughout the day, through the night

sitting on jute mattresses, I yearn to

hear you tell your tale and I hold your hand

as you guide me back to this time, your time

long gone, your name scratched by nameless

bystanders who still wait to spit once again

where there your bones lay dead, and I sing

a song of solitary sentence that not only

ceases the breath, but also erases a life

and a fate, and I sing, to continue, I sing


© Anmol Arora 2014

Image source: Painting © Arnaud Demol

I appreciate constructive criticism.

The Dot of Everything


I pick molding moss off of my scalp,

glistening when its dark and not light,

rising to create a supernal hologram

of the spaces between sulci and gyri,

the space that is of insanity that agitates

the fragments of artist that once was,

now shattered in me, its ashes spread.


I suck on my thumb for palliative notions

to satiate the thirst for earnest ecstasy

and swirl my left index finger through

a gaping hole in my stomach, tinging

it red, singing like a wren of grave

tendencies for my perplexing mind, to

agitate the beast to growl, to tear me apart.


My hair get singed by the graphics of sun,

scorching every emotion into amber

which deems it necessary for me to drench

entirely this body, and wipe away slippery

skin, to bring out what has been hidden

beneath, tattooed red on peeling bones,

keeping me buoyant in lakes of introspection.


For Wordle # 8 at MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie. Also linking it up with With Real Toads Open Link Monday.

Image source

For the boy within me


too afraid to speak,

you must not be helpless,

nor shall I let you become me

because I belong to the same creed

as they have been, who channeled all

the thoughts to cross their mind, in words

branching out of their brain, and well they do

leave my material, beading into a wreath of mute

cicadas as my empathy for your cancer of speechless

tendencies, so chew over some of them to release essence

of the beastly shells, and gulp down all your emotions in poison

of my cheat, so you die


Linking it with Sunday Whirl’s Wordle 158.

Image source

Not feeling this life… I look forlorn sometimes

What if the reverse happens!? Would that also be reversed!?

sometimes I lose the feeling of how it is to feel,

yanking my broken train reverse to scenes I’ve seen,

in an another time when life was not this and that,

it was not me who stepped through the threshold

(I wonder if it is me today when I step these footsteps),

possessed by a palindrome of words, they ricochet,

into webs of oil I leak down my brow into the eyes,


I was a boy, or was it that I was ever one in my eyes,

if truth lies every time, where trust shall put my mind,

to stay aground, no more falling into smoke holes,

that only go deep, and up, but never in my reach,

and now that I wobble at the precipice, of change

in the meaning I felt caricatured in me, I have but

to worry of life, if life was ever mine, or just a ruse,


 not has it come out to be mine today, still a ruse,

only thing different comes to where my faith resides,

no longer entangled in fates, but in neurons of time,

for I have lost the feel, I’d have but to feel a new feel


Image source

Words laid down to downsize dear dreams

What would it entail to carve me into an immortal carcass of chivalry?

It is not thine what you possess in this mauve maze of modernity.

Why is it cumbersome for them all to lift me up from my hinges?

Expectation is a cruel epiphany, better soon be resolved and discarded.

Where do swirls of the fates reside, mastering specimen of species?

Things to be found, and those that must remain in mist of melancholy.

Who yearns for song of the moon doting on exuberant stars of plight?

Pragmatism be the answer, and the answer alone, that is, for now.


The words that were brimming up the vessel of mind and thus, I spill them down… not to mean a meaning, not to say a thing but to just let them see their sight that looks nowhere but at me.

Limited to 100 words of vagrant vices, that is all that is. Thank you for reading.

Image source


A loud call out to the bloggers regarding the fact that I am looking for some guest authors to write on How Anxious. I have had three wonderful bloggers write a guest post in the past, which you can check out here. And now I need you. Come on, drop me an e-mail at or tweet me at @HowAnxious. We will set things up. I’ll soon be spamming all your blogs with my requests. So, hurry up… talk to me right now about it.