Category Archives: New Writing

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Be kinder than you need to be everyone is fighting a battle

I see a guy homeless in Leeds, I stop smile ask him if he would like a hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows. He smiles and nods attentively. I say,”fancy a beef burger with cheese n onions?” His smile broadens “yes please”he replied. I ask “Hp or ketchup?” “Ketchup please” “thank you very much “ he added. I pass over his cheese burger and hot steaming drink and notice tears gently falling down his cheek. “Oh what’s up?”, I ask..”nothing you’re just so kind.” “Hey you’re loved “, I say. “Sure you’d feed me if it was the other way around “. We exchanged names. Stuart is his name. I ask how long he’s been homeless, as I sit on the pavement besides him. “3years.”” How did you end up homeless,” I ask. Stuart went on to pour his heart out to me. He said he held a job down for twenty years, one evening, he kissed his wife and headed of out to do a night shift ( little did he know his life was never going to be the same again) whilst he was at work his wife fell down the stairs and ended up in a coma. When Stuart got home the next morning, he struggled to open the front door as her body was behind it. Stuart found his wife dead. He then slipped into depression as life as he knew it was no more. He ended up losing his job, getting behind with the rent consequently ended up with Stuart homeless. As he told me I could see the heartbreak in his eyes and etched in his face. I held back tears as my eyes studied his hands, swollen, dirty, cut, blistered from the elements. Then they glimpsed at his feet, what looks like green puss stuck to his black socks. The smell that came from him was unpleasant to say the least. Stuart shared that he ended up losing custody to social services, his three children. I asked how old are his children now, 18,16,14… as he reminisced about them his eyes glistened and a smile broke out. We chatted for about another ten minutes, Stuart said,”look at the people just walking by, sometimes they look down on me. But they shouldn’t judge. Don’t judge anyone,” he said. He said how he doesn’t smoke, drink or take drugs, just has a 💔 Brocken heart.  Then Stuart shared  how his favourite bit in the Bible is  where it says whoever hasn’t sinned throw the first stone. I said yep we have all sinned. Stuart commented that in life there’s tests and we can easily fail them if we don’t open our eyes and look out for them. I left Stuart a hat, two scarves and a sleeping bag. He was so grateful. Tears streaming we said our goodbyes. We hugged exchanged smiles and I went on my way.
I’m so grateful to have a home, family and friends. I’m blessed beyond measure, my cup runs over. If you pass someone who looks homeless or in need, smile they are just human like you n i. They have feelings. They were probably once like you n I, but life happened and they had a bad break. Let’s be kinder than we need to be as everyone is fighting their own battle.


This is an excerpt from a book I’m currently writing called, ‘By The Grace of God’
It’s about different life situations and people I have felt myself around. I’m hoping it helps people, encourages and changes some people’s life direction, brings hope and points people to Jesus.


I have feelings even if I don’t show them properly, or the same as you do.
I can kick off but it’s because I’m totally comfortable with you.
I can see you looking at me strangely or back stabbing me as I’m not stupid, even though I don’t act like you.
I want to be accepted just like you.
If you ask me a question I’ll answer you honestly as that’s what I think you want me to do. Then I’ll be surprised if you then don’t talk to me as all I’ve done is answer a question?? Like you asked me to..
I wish you had never asked me.. don’t ask me if you don’t want my opinion.. Then I’m frustrated, I might kick off..I don’t understand you, you say one thing but then do something different I really don’t get you.
I’ll go out of my way to try and help you like.
I can’t read your body language,
I don’t get social ques.
I take what people tell me as truth.
I desperately want to be liked accepted, I want you to get me.
I don’t mean to get on your nerves , I only want to be your mate. I want to be like you.
I get excited, giddy, loud, can totally show myself up. My highs are through the roof, then my lows mean my world crumbles.
Loud doesn’t mean confidence, i just wanna be accepted.
I’ll do anything for anyone, I’m generous, vulnerable, I’m me I like fun. I’m desperate for a friend, even only one.
Someone to accept me.
With a group of people, I feel invisible, I sit alone, no one notices, says a word, I’m dying to get chance to speak. I may not look the same as you but I have feelings, no one likes to be ignored, no one likes to be on there own. Why don’t I fit in? I have feelings, I could stand here and scream what’s wrong with me?? JUST TALK TO ME! I only want to fit in, be accepted for just being me.
I’m me not a label, I’m wonderfully made. Life would be boring if we were all made the same. Please embrace me, take time to speak with me, I’m a good friend, I’m loyal, truthful, funny, clever and I do what I say I’ll do. I’d always be there for you. I’ll accept you for you. I’ll always be there for you to lean on me, rely on me. If only you get to know the me, see past the autism, as trust me I’d be the best friend anyone could be…. 


This is an excerpt from a book I’m currently writing called, ‘By The Grace of God’
It’s about different life situations and people I have felt myself around. I’m hoping it helps people, encourages and changes some people’s life direction, brings hope and points people to Jesus.


The reality of life after suicide…
The reliving the last time I saw you, over and over again.
Did I miss a sign?
Could I of said something different?
What could I of done differently? Would you still be here?..
Rereading your txts, our messages…your posts..
Remembering the life we shared.
I know I told you I loved you, but I wish you really knew how much I loved you.
How missed you are.
The hole you have left in my heart, in my life,
The people that you have left behind.
When you go you don’t just disappear..
There’s an aftermath.
A devastation
A gaping hole
A dead body
An end of a blood line.
Dreams die
Relationships over
Children and grandchildren not born or not seen.
All your posession still here.
Triggers that remind people of you.
The mind is a battle ground, the fight is in your mind.
Believe me if you knew what you left behind you wouldn’t of gone.
You are precious,  perfectly made.

You are loved
You are worth the fight
The world would be a better place with you in it.
If you are thinking of ending your life, don’t! Please think again. You can do this, you have a future, you are ment to live, you will get through this. This is a stage in your life that in the future you will look back on and realise it did get better. Greater things are yet to come. It’s not week to ask for help. We all struggle, no one is perfect, no life is perfect. Keep going, tell someone how you feel if only a stranger. Ring or text a help line. Tell a friend, keep going, you are worth the fight. The victory is yours. The bullies will one day not be in your life. They will move on. You will meet someone else, who will love you for you. You are loved, please just keep going… don’t leave people broken  hearted… don’t leave someone to deal with your’s a waste of precious life, your precious life, it stops a generation, it’s from the enemy. Believe me no one can take your place or fill your shoes, keep breathing, keep going, one step in front of another. You are worth the fight to live, you are worth life. 


This is an excerpt from a book I’m currently writing called, ‘By The Grace of God’
It’s about different life situations and people I have felt myself around. I’m hoping it helps people, encourages and changes some people’s life direction, brings hope and points people to Jesus.


You think you won’t become addicted. You think what harm will a little dabble do? You can taken em or leave em. Harmless fun, only a laugh.
Start smoking cigs, then a bit of weed, then may be try some pills or a bit of coke on a weekend. But your not addicted you can pack in whenever you want. It’s easy it’s only a laugh. You chase the high, but you can pack in, when ever you want, as soon as your ready, just one more high.
Addiction creeps up and suddenly takes holds of you. It snares you and catches you unaware. Gripping you so tight not letting  you go. You really never wanted it to be like this, surely you can kick it, I’ll just give in one more line..The highs not as high so you try the next latest thing. Paranoid, depression, anger, frustration gripping tight. Change in your personality, noticed by loved ones. But it’s not a problem you can change, give up, just one more hit, I can easily go back. Weed,speed,coke, heroin or spice all grab hold of you and steel taking away life. Sickness, shaking, sweating just one more hit then I’ll have this sorted. I’ve got this, it won’t beat me. Just one more hit, I can escape as I am not an addict.. not me I have this sorted.. Chasing  this dragon gets dearer and dearer £50,£60,100,£200 a day, the cost escalates it’s running out of control.
Mental illness grips and has won. Your body is changing dying from the chemicals that fill you.  Spice – the new high, can’t possibly be bad as was a legal high. It grabs you n is 5 times more addictive than heroin, smoke it once and it can claim your mind, killing brain cells, that can never be revived. It eats away your flesh and burns inside your body to out. Acid in your stomach slidifies. Body frozen, like a mannequin. Mind numb. Oh how you wish you hadn’t started that first smoke, first hit, first high. Morals you once had have gone by the wayside. Stealing of loved ones, loving and needing drugs more than your family and children. You’re a long way off from where you started. How did you end up here? It’s ok you got this. Surely you can change, just one more high..
Well the real answer is NO. No one wants to be or plans to be an addict, it suddenly overwhelms you, sneaks up and takes hold of you chains you down, suffocates and leads you to death. Death of the person you once were, death of the dreams you had. Addiction changes you, consumes you. It will steel your life, money, future and your children’s future. It robs generations.

So if you are offered a smoke of a spliff, a small pill, a try of this a bit that Please say No!! pass it by, give it a miss, it’s not worth the risk. Keep clean, it’s an evil that’s waiting to pounce and tie you down, drag your life from you. Alter your looks, age you and steel all that you from you. A real friend would never make or force you to try a drug, new high or a known drug.
Ask yourself what’s in it for them? if I take or try this? Will they benefit financially? Don’t enter the devils play ground. Just say no, it’s not for me, I don’t need that, it’s ok I think I’ll pass…

 I hope reading this stops someone from ruining their life.


This is an excerpt from a book I’m currently writing called, ‘By The Grace of God’
It’s about different life situations and people I have felt myself around. I’m hoping it helps people, encourages and changes some people’s life direction, brings hope and points people to Jesus.



It’s Aiko’s birthday today. Just as the new chrysanthemum dawn begins to beckon, she awakens and her naïve sleep-filled gaze is captivated by the spreading dawn that’s only an hour or so into its ineluctable theatre of nature. Its flamingo-hued fingers are drawing back the veil of night; a clarion call if any were needed to announce that today is little Aiko’s birthday.

An auspicious day with celestial harmony and tranquility prevailing. Later, once this nascent day has matured into full morning, Aiko will show her draughtsman accurate hieroglyphs to the school-teacher and he will smile, applauding her endeavour.

Having breakfasted with special treats her Mother made and fastidiously donned her uniform, Aiko accompanies her grandfather holding his hand on their stroll to school. Looking up, far up in the early morning sky, the observant Aiko says that she can see a silver kite drifting slowly, slowly across the azure canopy. Her grandfather squints and knows it cannot be a kite. Though from that”kite” a tiny silver sliver appears to begin to somersault endlessly earthwards.

Momentarily transfixed, Aiko pulls impatiently at her grandfather’s sleeve, and in that moment he understands that all the rumours were true and that this moment would forever be separated from all the other moments and all the other times and all the other places would be separated from this time and this place by this silver kite.

Without knowing that to-day is Aiko’s birthday and she would show her classroom teacher her draughtsman perfect hieroglyphs, that silver kite brings with it an inauspicious augury. Aiko will not be celebrating her birthday today, the day when time itself will come to an end, and it will foreclose on all birthdays. On this sixth day of August. 1945.


Running. Days spent running. Long days running away. Far, far away from that Hill. Senlac.Where Harold Godwinson fell. All that remained of his Housecarls, all that evaded the keen eye and whetted blades of those Normans was here in this rout.

They are seized by fear as they broach the deep autumn green of the forest with the day darkening about them. They trample into the swirling grey and brown. Heaving past trees so gaunt, so erect everywhere flecked with its shadows.

They feel feral eyes lurking, they smell that stench only warhorses make; the tang of their salivary breath as their stalking footsteps are tramping heavily on foliaged ground.

Warriors, masterless curs with their master dead, are breaking, staggering into a run. The run of hearts and minds now fleeing and pounding all at once as if seized by a madness. Their fevers fired by diagonal shafts of sunlight and arrows. Threading and piercing. Whispering their death, clattering and cutting.

Bone bared, sweat-browed fighters are now falling amid the dense. And of all the summers that are to come, those summers no longer are theirs but the forest’s.

The Saint,A Stranger Among Men

The Saint, A Stranger Among Men
A previous age, perhaps less materialistic than our present one would have recognised and
acknowledged his otherness. His air of inner spirituality which others say he carried with him
and wore as lightly as the finest cape about his shoulders. Shoulders that others imagined
might have sprouted angelic wings. Eccentric, a flaneur with a quietly assertive insouciance
he wafted along the boulevards with transcendent equanimity. Then on a day of no particular
significance, at least none that I could apprehend at the time nor afterward, I actually
encountered him at one of the more popular Cafes, this figure of some Left bank
intellectual /philosophical speculation /admiration/veneration. This itinerant dispenser of
wisdom and insight.
The Saint with the shabby overcoat and hangdog expression asked me if I could spare him a
few reminiscences. I replied that the change in my pockets changes with the changing tide,
though I could offer him some reflections instead. The Stranger sat back in his chair
ordered himself another absinthe and began whistling some nameless tune while he waited
for his drink to arrive.
” If all our pain and sorrow only came on the morrow would we set the alarm late or not at
all? taking the chance that vicissitudes had all somehow passed us by while we were fast
This I realised immediately was the aphoristic balm which the Saint dispensed with
customary generosity to those he presumed were in need of immediate spiritual relief of some
kind; which in his own inimitable view included just about everybody. Though not all at the
same time.
” And were we to store all our tears shed in our lives, how big would the bottle have to be?
Could we claim back some pennies if we returned it empty? ” I was inwardly responding with
something akin to mild annoyance, outwardly with a beatific smile bordering on rictus when,
the Saint glanced askance at his watch where time had stopped years ago.
He wondered aloud where the waiter might’ve got to with his drink? “ If we don’t feel the
suffering of others, how will we know if we have blood in our veins? ” thereupon the Saint
got up, bid me adieu and was gone.
Some time after he’d left I saw in the mirror that there was no longer a reflection there
of me.

Les Autres

The unexplained disappearance of the reclusive author had never been properly investigated,at least not to the satisfaction of his fans,his readers and most of all his adopted son,the wannabe reporter on the local rag.
For years this state of dissatisfaction festered amongst the interested parties,who if nothing else managed to commemorate the renowned scribbler’s vanishment with an annual pilgrimage of sorts.
Then one year with the weather being particularly inclement,even for the usually desolate Scottish lochs,only the reporter had made it to the venue,the deserted house.Whereupon finding himself alone resolved in an instant to make a foray into the abandoned domicile to perhaps, in his own mind, satisfy an unquenchable curiosity.
Nothing actually came of that quixotic foray,nothing that is apart from a chance discovery,in the drawer of an antique dresser of a manuscript.
A suicide note perhaps? may be not.A last will and testament? no one however questioned its authenticity when it was scanned and reproduced in the local weekly under the adopted son’s byline.The absent author alluded to his own ineluctable disappearance in the form of a poem.Simply perhaps to add to whatever mystery was bound to ensue from his vanishment.

When winter’s cadence sounds,
burn their pictures
the photographs of the dead
burn them,
so that they shan’t
trouble you again
when winter’s cadence sounds;

the gardens are shrouded
in snow
upon which no earthly foot
will fall,
and the door chimes dormant
hang suspended by a thread
of your own disbelief;

an imperceptible menace
waiting for a breath,
a snap of cold winter’s
air to cut the thread
and send it crashing,

crashing onto the floor,
where you shan’t hear it
except in your imagination’s
ear firmly fixed on the
sound of winter’s cadence.

‘Positive Sutra: Life says never give up!!!’


Image: Amit Bose

Abandoned on the road of love, without a destination

Let the pain not relieve, for it transforms into beautiful poems.


The book will be called ‘Positive Sutra: Life says never give up!!!’

Thank-you Louis Kasatkin Sir and Destiny Poets for giving me this wonderful platform to share a few words about my book which is yet to be published.

A blook: A book created by picking some of the writings on my blog.


My blog is my life. It is dearest to me as it reflects everything that I experience in my life. A medium of self-expression, it is a journey that the reader will experience beyond words. I have a couple of followers on the blog but, I wanted to reach to a broader audience. So, I decided to publish my writings from the blog and put them together in a book. Here is my first blook (A book prepared from blog posts).

 My blog has been my constant companion and an immense support during tough times. Life is so tremendously exciting when you have a blog. You keep searching for topics to write so that you keep updating the blog. It gives you a reason and motivation to write. The other day I wondered why I write and this is what came to my mind.

Why do I write?

When you are hurt you hit hard with words,
You don’t know what you are hitting at, who are you hitting with words?
Some who read say, “You wrote well”,
Some call you insane,
Some ignore but, you write because writing empties you and then fills you with immense joy. Words do have that soothing power.
This poem shares my reasons for writing.


Screaming out to the heaven,
Loathing in disharmony,
Fuming in fathomless anger,
Restless regardless of the world,
Hiding, hoarding deep in the shackles of daily worldly disdainful, tasteless world.
Weighing words with disgusting balance.
Yelling within, peaceful ‘me’ is just a sham.
Words wane the anger, disgust and fury
String of hurriedly typed words with a gush of emotion.
Now a peaceful me is a picture of perfect happiness.


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I took to writing this book with the aim of reaching out to people who have faced depression or immense emotional challenges. We often get hovered by spiral of negative thoughts to get pulled into depression. The force of negativity kills energy within us and replaces it with mental lethargy. Sometimes even walking a few steps to pick up a glass of water or grab a newspaper becomes a herculean task. Our will power is weak and we only see the negative aspect of life.

Only positive thinking can pull us out of this spiral.

The book has poems that date back to the years when I have gone through moments of stark darkness and disappointment. And to each dark poem there is a poem reflecting the positive attitude towards life that I hold today.

This collection of poems is divided in two parts, first being Aikya: Nirvana & dispelling of negativity and second being Smaran: Fragrance of Times.


Aikya means unity or oneness. A spurt of laughter often wets our eyes. In humour is reflection of sorrow, and pain. A transition from sorrow to happiness and back again, is all one; a confluence of positive and negative. The dusk of negativity has to end, because, it has to be followed by a beautiful dawn. This is a disposal of negativity, which has to end and only from it will flow positivity. Ironically blended in it is all that is positive to life.

Experience a trance that is a confluence of end and start, has a scent of sorrow with fragrance of time.


We are all knotted in relations, which give us something special and which compels us to wish that we could live longer. Smaran is the fragrance of time that is temporal.

” New Writing ” section of Destiny Poets

” New Writing ” section of Destiny Poets

1 Post per Author per Month.

For all authors out there who wish to share short stories, a scene from a playscript, or chapter of a novel.

We advise posting a suitable length section which others will enjoy reading and giving their considered views on.

Just create your post as usual, but choose the category ” New Writing ” from the correct section.