To You,

I hope I'd write poetry,
Menace,
I hope I'd find love in an endless crowd of you and I;

Chasing each other,
In endless circles like a time loop,

Like Aurora Borealis;
Filled with fireworks and colours

Stuck in the Artic Glee

Would you bring flowers for me?

My thoughts are dark;

I saw people at night
I thought they might be dead

It's the living I'm scared of;

I hallucinate to the world of unknown,
The spring has succumbed to the night
Where the undead summons potions and rites;

I live in a dark box;

It floats in the Artic and i succumb to the snow

Naked self, shivered not
The boisterous cloth of human skin seemed to freeze

I blossom in a shelf where history latched to me

I sleep under a heap of hair,
I eat not by the fire
I sip cold tea.

Thread of cotton,
Thread of silk,
The sun set in west,
A weakling of ill,
Hands bound
Feet turned
Sitting in a Banquet:
Amidst 80 men from Greece,
20 women from Athens
A hall full of bureaucrats,
doctors, physicians, astronauts!

Plato, I sit at your Banquet
I sit thee,
Split my mirror
Show him to me.

"May her soul rest in peace"
And journey of what?
Maze me out, Maze of blue
Copernicus, Aristotle, Ptolemy
Blurry of curry, the banquet!
And I sat as the thread pulled me to the tunnel

The sky was pink,
The ocean was grey
But the thread seemed to pull me through uncertainties

Good doctor, split my spine in two
Plato in depth;
Man /Man , woman /woman
gender trip, gender spun,

Split in half,
lost in time,
Am I him;

Or is he mine.

We are in a state of war, my friend

The trees are turning red

My mind are soldiers preparing for death

Their families, distraught, words left unsaid.

I'm in a state of war, my friend

I cannot keep on fighting till the end

The creatures in my head play jumbled words;

Not a soldier in my genes,

It's my reflection commanding enemies

Prepare for death;

I have given up my home,

Unto heaven, my martyred self.

Merciless to attempts of bearing your heart,
He dressed up in flowery carnations
Truest of the fidelity, winter grabbed your hand
A mock of self esteem, history taught Athenian women
To be bold and ruthless

He thought Sunday would be a bloodbath,
By Monday you'd sleep in your bed
Athenian women wear bricks on their genitalia
It is hard to summon love

A little dance and **!

If it had to be a Monday morning
where children aren't slaughtered with rendezvous of competitive parents fighting fugitive,
And Sunday would be left behind
No Emily! Monday is for love making

Might I dance the trojan horse
And sneak into your heart,

Manners hath not maketh man.