NaPoWriMo: Day 15

So it dragged on,

tediously; the air

thick with blame.

My blood exhausted

by the violence of

my emotions.

And with all my might

I try to mask it but

my chest is wheezing

like a gas boiler,

and the small tremors

that contort my face

soon prove that rage

has become the very

breath and bone of me.


by Yasin Chines


***Unhealthy / Negative arguments that stretch on tirelessly can produce the most agonising rage. You learn never to go back there again, and then you laugh about it, in retrospect. We live and learn.

NaPoWriMo: Day 14

But who weeps

for the angels

or notices when they

turn away, tight-mouthed,

to stiffen their upper lips?


by Yasin Chines

And when the day of wrath,
now avalanching into the present,
sees half-lit faces smudged by fear.
Ash-ridden eyes not even
shedding a hypocritical tear.
When all see our enlarged pores
and the remnants of
yesterday’s cosmetics…
Will you moan about the
un-mascara-ed lash?
or grumble about the
unkempt tuft of beard?
Will you, will you even
peer into the mirror?


by Yasin Chines

He loved his Ouds,

musks & stuff.

When asked to speak

to her, he sniggered saying,

“She doesn’t have to look at you,

listen to you or touch you,

but she can’t help smelling you.

And that’s what lingers.”


by Yasin Chines

Scents can be the richest communication medium we have. #TrueStory

NaPoWriMo: Day 11 (Do•ing - Definition)


Doing Definition


Do•ing (doo-ing)

1. The electrical leaping of bones that are fed up of being drunk with the hope which anything so unbegun always instils.

2. The leaps from which dreams are born.


by Yasin Chines

(Typewriter Definitions from Yasin’s Dictionary)

NaPoWriMo: Day 10 (Ghostless Sleep)


Ghostless Sleep


I laid there, quivering.
My mind bleeping on & off;
fishing haphazardly
for answers.
Thoughts surfing on a
tide of dizzying misery,
until the crushing exhaustion
from the inside ticking
of remorse, slinked me
into ghostless sleep.


by Yasin Chines

Typewriten Poetry

NaPoWriMo: Day 9

She sniffs her un-braceleted

wrist and thinks, sniffs it again

and tries once more to think

what it is she’s remembering.

Right then, I realise that

poets have been curiously

silent about the brisk

synaptic leap which occurs

between the sense of smell

and memory.


by Yasin Chines


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