"Woman"
Where amidst the storm,
You decided to stoop.
For what gold and beef,
You stoop near the pillory.
Why Amidst the scar of hounds,
You decided not to draw sword,
And bleed from beneath and within.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
Love for broken glasses,
Though it bleed,
Was her own choice.
To live in the broken dreams,
Was her choice?
"Better a compulsion of love,
To bleed and love."
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 6:14 AM UTC
Love the smell between toned thighs?
Smell it till it stinks so bad,
Then would you eat what lies behind.
If for sake of love,
Stinks so worse still makes you mad,
Slouch down and pull your hands out.
Love may be it for you fell prey to stink.
Love the uncut smile, drowsy breast?
Lay on the ***** till it feels hard,
Then would you press on to it.
If for sake of love,
One that ***** is heart still hugs you,
Close your eyes and lay on the *****
Love maybe it for you fell pray to hardness.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
Pain near her ******
She puked twice and fainted once,
Still aching and reddening.
Pain too chronic-
That began as he born,
With head out and nails,
To severe the home.
The umbilical chord,
That he held from home,
Is now withered,
The rope that strangles her face.
The pain so heavy,
Stained with his blood-unbearable but bears.
Still she breast-feeds his dreary canine.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
Somedays back,
I dreamt of dancing,
On the solace of pain.
And,
My legs are chained,
To buttons and boots,
That, my dreams are dreams to realize.
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
For too light an love it was-
Of her, amidst the storm,
That winds do carry away,
With leaps and bounds,
To boundless.
For too heavy was his emotions that,
He decidedly swayed onto the,
Reminiscence of 'wind blown love'.
Sometimes the spring is too brutal,
As winds carried,
Thrones and fire from her
Blazing his emotions-
But far enough to be-hold,
And much nearer to sink.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
Love is a need.
A need for catastrophe,
Within self and another soul.
Love, but a social need,
For transactions,
That arts illusion in mind.
Thus love is a need of illusion.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC
Can you draw spiral stars,
On the broadest daylight
Or maybe a mushroom,
On a slight dusky spring morning.
The world of artifacts,
With metals and rust and
Currents and power can.
Can you paint with blood and flesh,
The script of new face, - blind parades of dead.
A spring morn with fluttering twigs for nest and next-
That day when her lips,
Filled with joy leaped to touch the sky,
Only metals and power,
Vanquished the laughter-
But sounds do never lost,
Haunt the birds that build nests.
Mushroom grew from the dust,
Spat blood on the throne of heaven,
That ended the spring,
With wintry rustle.
................................
Only a while ago,
As he looked up to the sky,
Heart sank and drowned,
As the airbus boomed atop.
For who knows,
What way life may turn.
Some uranium may sing his voice next,
Or some birds may sit on void perch.
The sound ceased, his heart thumped,
In the sounds of hustle bustle,
His sound lost enough,
To be heard, as the nest is empty.
For power and artifacts, we follow,
We walk to the scythe,
And little we know,
That we water seeds of extinction,
With more metals and salts of pride.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 4:14 AM UTC
Spring a gore noise,
Autumn a wet sponge.
When birds in spring
Unloved and un-kissed.
When rain drops in autumn
Wets no shoulders.
Spring, a death lament
When moths do move,
But with winds - with no song.
Autumn, a funeral drum,
When no rain but dreams plummet,
Spattering over the blaze.
Cuckoo's cry or petrichor,
When unloved is broken harp or roasted almond.
But, spring is not the death lament,
For moths who buzz no more,
May hope to fill lips with violin scream.
But, spring is not the funeral drum,
For petrichor may join the lavender,
Wet together may fill with life.
Spring and winter, two unsung soul.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 7:54 AM UTC
Sky is the end of the race,
All we do is pedal to it.
Some moves so far
That their roots are torn.
Endless they strive,
But up to where?
The void? The sand ship?
But where ends the sky?
All we tend to kiss the sky and strive,
Under our prayer and sweat.
Some with wings, some in dreams,
Some with boats or rafts, we walk,
But to which horizon
The sky ends?
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 6:03 AM UTC