I hunt
the beasts inside me
and sell their skins
to you.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
The boy who had lost sleep
for years by staring
at the blurry horizon
found his dream
nestled in an oyster shell
near his feet on the seashore.
It took him a lifetime
to learn.
The dry petal
of his countenance
was granted rain.
All it required
was a meditation in struggle.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
When I bring your broken song
back to your broken self,
when I follow your voice
and reach the ends of your shore,
let me into you.
Lead me to that little child
who tries to sing her way out
of her self-imposed walls.
Bring her to my consoling arms.
We will lie down in your depths
and watch you mend yourself
as you sing to the moon.
We will quietly fall asleep
to the rhythm of your words.
Words that echo
in the theater of a still night
and rhyme in accord with
the tides of a forlorn sea.
Words that soothe
our damaged souls.
All the songsters of the night
can never hope to recreate
the music of the world
I have found in you.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
Blue wine in a glass chalice
for him to drink after ************
He'd rather welter in earthly pleasures
than confront his disciples now.
The sheep has a lost shepherd.
And he'd like to take a boat
back to his earlier self
and find out what he could have
otherwise been,
where he could have
otherwise sailed.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
She had enough.
They poured her a cup again.
They had given her all -
Advice, punishment and pain.
They still went for her soul.
They said it’s a scary world
And locked her up inside
With curtains in which to fold
And walls to chain her mind.
They said her dreams were futile
And scripted all her days.
They sneered when she was fragile
And ***** her in all ways.
I found her so moth-eaten
And from all fighting, tired.
She could not bear to listen.
She had enough, she said.
I don’t blame her for what she did later.
She had enough.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
‘It’s better when it’s quiet.’
Between a laptop, a cup of coffee
And a ton of indiscernible emotions,
He fumbled for lighter themes,
Quieter proceedings
And tastier imagery.
But it all felt wrong.
‘Also make it short. Make it sweet.’
No. It might end up schmaltzy.
‘Alright. What about making it rhyme?’
No. It will be more of a crime.
‘Meter? Syllable count?’
No. No. No
‘They say you should write like you talk.’
Yeah. But then it would be all whining and pessimism.
‘Who cares? It will still be you.’
Does it have to be me?
‘Isn't it more satisfying when it is you? ‘
Right. After all, it’s for me. Not for them.
But it should not be quiet. It should not be subtle.
It should not be short either. It should overflow.
It should be angry. It should be an explosion.
He cracked his knuckles, made up his mind.
He was always loud and open.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
They never trusted him with their secrets
Though he was always known to be reliable.
They talked but shared nothing with him
Probably because he shared nothing either.
His life had never been eventful as theirs.
If he did talk, he would only come out awkward.
No one wanted his nerdy theories, nor his feelings.
They saved him a seat while they discussed.
His intellectual **** just drowned in their garbage.
They were all too polite that they ****** him off daily.
He had conservative parents, and self-doubt.
He was always shown the path to walk
And was taught that thinking is useless.
He watched Bill Hicks all day and wondered
How he escaped crucifixion.
He grew up so studious and religious
That it took him a while to figure out things.
The smart ones took him to be a bit slow.
The others were sure he was getting mad.
Soon enough, he was in love with rebellion.
He would come back to see old friends
And find that he was the only one who cared.
He would listen to Grace Slick yelling all day
And know that he must find somebody to love.
He became another tired, self-pitying *****
He started accepting the world the way it is
Though it would never accept him.
He would want to explode once in a while
And tell them all what's wrong with them.
Instead, he kept writing his bad poems.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
A soft sun faded,
calmly and unmindful of
the poet beside.
Mist fumed out from those
burnt remains of the sunset
and smoked them streets up.
I grew more distraught
and more desperate to write,
to compose my next.
I walked through that fog
in search of a new poem,
and came out crawling.
As I figured why,
and as I watched, midnight came
gracefully quiet.
The deserted road,
stretched under a silent moon,
then smelled more sullen.
And the broken moon,
that peeped in from its abyss,
just grew more morose.
And this bleak journey
in search for inspiration
proved overwhelming.
And I was so lost
in some lost place for lost souls.
So lost.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 5:47 AM UTC
I met your heroine today, on the roadside.
She's just as broken as you painted her.
The child still sells flowers for a living,
And still wears that soiled, tattered frock.
She skipped about those sour streets,
Begging every passerby to see her flowers.
Everyone felt sorry for her abused body.
I approached her and asked for a flower.
A smile spread across her dreary complexion.
'You're an artist, aren't you ?'
Her sad, weary eyes understood everything.
'I have met all sorts of artists.
They have been here to paint me, photograph me,
And some have even composed tragedies on me.'
I told her that they were all trying to help.
'It's not that. I just make a good subject.'
Her bruised hands lifted to me a rose,
'I prefer those who come for the flowers, instead of me'.
I took it, looked at her and asked hesitantly,
'May I write on you ?'.
She smiled yet again. That same haunting smile.
'For a change, will you write on the artists who sell me ?'
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
I walked through that silent garden;
In the past, it had many children.
I played with that abandoned swing;
Heard its loneliness sing.
Sat by those lost trees of yore ;
They were never just wood before.
Picked up a fallen petal;
Dead and dead, with a broken fettle.
Talked with the parched leaves in the grey;
They too had a thousand things to say,
Of broken glory and drying times,
Much like the decay of growing human lives.
I too will wither , I too will grow bleak,
From the song of the child to the silence of the weak.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC