I will float in the waters of Ganges till the end of time;

To be or not to be
A ratio in my mind

I'd like to ***** a needle
And run through burrows of sanctity
The alien nights of virtue
And pirates of Kashmir

My red, a colour of freedom

For love, my beloved I compose no more of these sullen sonnets,
I would stare into your corazon and eyes that symmetry mine;

My love, my Jupiter, my universe in thine palms,
Your shadow in my arms,
My old and bickering laugh
And your back that stifles the old shrine,
You would be the world's lost diadem,
And little of mine,
I would die and be reborn in thine arms till the end of time.

There was an Indian tale,
About the Indian sap,
Delicately wounded, delicately jabbed,
precariously tender, ostentatious sad
She was the Indian child of doom,
Her poetry was bitter and bad.

She wrote poems about the famine,
the *** of the crazy and the kind,
Often wrote about dreamers and pirates
And of the ill of the mind

Years and years have gone through,
She has yearned for the Odyssey of the great,
But all she wrote was the depression,
the depth, the sorrows and the hate.

She had written about the men
She had not known about,
She forgot their names, Mike or Rick
Or about the one that was stout

Well, what about the one that had hurt you,
Oh wait, all of them did,
This wasn't a circus or a mayhem
Or a story or a gist

She wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote
Till she could write no more
She realized she never knew herself
She was alone on the dance floor.

And I asked her the fun and frugal
Who else hangs themselves on Christmas walls,
What do they wish to be an astronaut or a pie?
Would they breathe to live or to wake up and die

It is rhetoric in reply

I have stopped listening to people talk
I just wear my blue fine dress,
I have sunken eyes that see no dreams
I feel no love during ***,
I have a green bottle marked mumbo jumbo
I will not sail for zero dreams
Although very often with my bruised heart I wake up from naps,
I make art out of blood down my nose
Tap tap,
I have stopped smiling in photographs.

It *****.

I'll probably call it sickness,
sickness of the mind,
the wrath of terrible timings,

I freaked out at escapades,
kind of a terrible night,
we are two people,

We don't want each other in our sights.

I am sick of it kindly,
Good sir, I will shapeshift into your complaints
I will be invisible and unsociable and kind of insane.

These pills aren't doing me any good
They are cheap from the local goodwill
They are made of rainbows and **** stained thoughts
And still I swallow them gladly.

I wonder how in a forest fire,
I walk with naked arms,
Take a spin,
give me a pill
Let me fight with your naked guns.

They are all temporary:
Pop a Xanny and look at the sky;
You cannot play pictionary
If the board is full of lies.

I'm tired Carlie,
This marriage is a waste,
You have pretty hair, and skin that shines
But I don't want to see your face

I dimmed the light in my mistress's dine
She had charged me with gold and time
I wanted her heart but alas
I realised that it wasn't mine.

I was wet darling,
The kind that bled rain from scents,

The end of March came as a bliss,
You were the chance I'd hardly miss

Little pottery pourie, naked in bed and soaked,
She realised on April first, she was the pretty joke.

I had known little of love,
Only that it stung;
The valleys of Kashmir, chrysanthemum
And the child selling lotus leaves!
Have I all the carnations and tulips

Yet I admire the little cherub of my Garden's marigold,
And watch it grow to life.