Pre-order upcoming book: The Child in the Mirror by Hassan Rauf

Hi all,

Thank you for your constant support for T.P.S.G and its publications.

My upcoming book is finally ready to be launched soon and I have partnered with Publishizer and a few international presses to help make T.P.S.G a traditional publishing house in Pakistan.

  • T.P.S.G already has 6 successful publications of The Rapport with the submissions for the 7th issue opening on 25th of April.
  • The literary website has collections from around the world – more underway.
  • T.P.S.G is planning to start publishing books by Q4 2021 (hopefully) and I intend to lead the way as the founder with “The Child in the Mirror” and later with “The Journal”
  • We are trying to keep this platform free and accessible for writers and we support ourselves solely from sales of The Rapport (and in future other books hopefully)

Please support this platform and my efforts by subscribing and if possible “pre-ordering” my book HERE

To show support, you can also order the celebration bundle for The Rapport

Best Regards

Heart in a Bottle

The ocean cries so I can sail my heart in a bottle
on the billow beyond my broken window.

I let the dead in 
to kiss anonymous bones as an alibi  

While my moonlust soul, guilty as charged, pleads insanity 
to commit crime after crime of passion
in enchanted waters. 

Question the Tide

The sun settles itself beyond the horizon,

With a gathering mist clouding the ocean,

I stand like a figurehead at the dock’s edge.

I watch the ships I harbour with much devotion.

I turn my back to the sea ablur,

A great wave looms over my back.

In the darkest of nights, I am engulfed,

By a seething mass of black.

The sun tentatively peaks over the water’s surface,

On my back I lie, facing the sky blue,

My eyes are closed, but other senses heightened,

I feel how life is soon due.

God lies within the essence of living.

To that there is much I would say,

But no one will listen to a tale drenched in sorrow,

When the morning sunlight floods the pathway of today.

The jungle chatter is smothered by a thick canopy,

I gather the birds I spotted from a clearing to the sky,

Each is coloured and varied like a prayer. Over the world’s edge not many can fly.

From the Sky

The night air is cold to the touch,

As I step out my front door,

To the crescendo of fighting,

And my neighbours engulfed in war.

A thousand arrows are flung over the city’s walls,

Setting each and every building alight,

And by the shining of a frowning moon,

I am struck, and my day’s end is in sight.

And now I exist merely to ponder,

And to treasure my very own night,

That will last the length of my life,

With time brought on by another’s fight.

So I collapse to the floor,

The arrow an angry person,

And my body a helpless door,

Such that my condition does worsen.

I feel my conscious slip,

On the arrow that has pierced my heart,

To something with a steel tip,

That severs life apart.

So I imagine what a strong building,

Could be built with all this steel,

That is wasted stealing human life,

And thus I no longer feel.


For many a millennia,

It would be all they would ever know,

That the range of icy mountains,

Was the edge of the world, and so,

Who were they to come and say,

That the people who lived below,

Were really truly ignorant,

And that their knowledge stooped them low?


The dragon spirals through the infinite shadow,

Devouring the soul, as goes the prediction.

But the beast was crazed and blind,

And inside its skull lies an affliction.

The sun, pierced by the peak of a mountain,

Rose and outshone the stars.

And reveals the lakes and rivers of honey;

An addiction is a jail with no bars.

So the dragon ran low of its reserves,

And tumbled out the sky and to the ground.

Shattered on the dirt it bellowed,

Thus the animal once revered, was no longer renowned.

The clock struck thrice, and the winter arrived.

Snow drove the dragon to a crawling speed,

Up the side of a mountain, to where the lava rests.

To where the dragon, for its sight, would plead.

In a flash, the mountain erupted,

And amongst the avalanche it thundered,

The dragon was buried between snow and rock,

Nature’s sarcophagus, older than every hundred.

But with the volcano uncovered,

No one was quite sure what to say,

Where had the lava spouted from?

And if so, where had it come to stay?

Instead, only the dragon had tasted,

As it had descended into the mountain’s heart,

That the lava was merely a sweet, nearly boiled tea,

And that would have torn its soul apart.

When it Rains, it Pours

The rain of the clouds slowly falls to the ground.
I’m sitting on wooden benches listening to the sounds.

The trees, I watch
as they sway and move with the siren winds.

Fallen leaves
turn from green to gold ending in dust.

I am not afraid to swim this storm, to face the floods before me.

I’ve been swimming
before my feet learned to walk.

I can’t give in to this tsunami.

I can’t give up on you.
It’s my lonely survival.

Closed Eyes

It’s not safe with you; you lose everything.
Nonetheless, we share the pills, that green small affection.

As we lie
in a dark room,
walls crumble,
I fumble,
and I know it’s not safe to stay.

Still, I take the chance,
Filling my void, for emotion,

Losing myself to feel something.

I will play this part.

Fall Vitim

Soft, let these petals run. Winds blow east to west, whirlwind strong—
stay ahold, love.

We’ll make it through, outside without a wall—

We won’t survive this wind, unless these petals run.

these petals

run away.

Without catch, without hold — let me go.


Nails dig into my back.

You bite my neck, I’m dripping wet.

Turn me on with your slightest touch. Your wet lips,

Between thighs and tongue.