Tears of a bleeding knife; spoken promises from silent lips;
The language of one swaying a conversation- like their hips

I have been a victim of defeat, while snuffing up my tears;
Alongside the skeletons parading around in my closet
As a bone to pick with love, while picking up roses
Traveling through the thick of things as two lovers
Both stealing hearts- and being thick as thieves

As a moon spotlights over misery- wretchedness still,
Still under the sun we must celebrate in amnesia
Of what has passed- our past fades in time;
As its ticking clock of regret, is no longer mine

A breeze of promise echoes- searching for change
The very chances that elude the sage geckos
As we march towards another battle ground
I smile as a promise of fighting for better
Neither as a man who wears a frown

             I look above for hope’s song

Earthly possessions, earthly possessions;
At most they’re all of my greatest confessions

As the mask I so love to wear over my face
Is a mask made out of chameleon skins-
It grants me a shrewd changing appearance,
Camouflaging myself, to fit in with the crowd.

This pain I speak of, it all comes in spasms
My walls crumble on themselves- gripping,
Tightening, constricting and then discharging

Oh how this life once filled me with pleasure,
A rush of excitement towards coming days
Touching the most sensitive parts of me
A pleasant pleasure of riding the little waves
In coupled desire and hunger, a peaceful
Ecstasy to my Divine

Now it has slowed down on itself
Accelerating on top of my angsts
For what was once the idyllic tingles in my toes;
Is now a feeling of anxiousness-
I have such cold feet

A pain of pleasuring in the company of pain
This is my self-inflicting prison
And its escape is maiden to me- a ******
In the penitentiary of this world’s *******

Why do I allow this world to leave holes in me?

I smelt their blood like
A cloud of ash in the air;
Dreadfully trying to hide their faces
With a pale mask- a thinly made veil,
To urgently curtain over their enigmas

Still, I could see straight through them all;
And the sight of them charred my eyes,
Leaving my mind in an ashtray-
As by tiny little spurs; a question
Of passion was ignited:

If I could ever be a voice to these people-
A people who themselves were so lost
My words to them are yet to be found;

Oh, how to find that which is lost…
Is to understand the pain parallel to such
A terrible grief in itself…
I must lose something myself.

I cried these dirges brashly,
After these long nights
While my skin cracks;
Irrigating it with my dry tears
By the desperate harmattan;
My cries are a rustling of leaves under a sun
That never fades- washing my face in strict rays
Its attendance is long overstayed;
Resting on my absent mind

I sit outside in the world’s
Quick-witted; criticizing eyes
Weeping proudly without a rush of blinking tears;
This everyday world isn’t my beloved home to own-
A shelter neglecting to cover my nakedness

I sit outside in the world’s
Quick-witted; criticizing eyes
With a tiny cloth left damp, sodden and weary
By the stretched tears flowing down my bare *******
The world quickly suckles on my grief –
Biting, pulling, and scarring them by their buds
calling it all fair by its, “Budding remarks”
With the goalmouth of getting itself full up;
Never nursing the agony.  

                     Oh, how my heart hurts!

I am not the man for a moment;-
more so trying to be a writer, and questioning
whether I actually still enjoy being a poet.

I am… an interlude, just another episode
in between two random pages- open to seeing
the anomaly of the next chapter, or more or less
staying blissfully content on the things of old.

Refusing to give up, but at the moment,
willing enough to give up the pen.
Sigh… I think the poet is finally dead.

Embrace the future's call
treasure the present's glow
and transcend the bygone flow.