I guess not enough painkillers can take away a broken heart.

long lost years
our master, Shakespeare
traveled to London for four days
no shillings or good garments in his bag

he stayed in lodge inns
penny a night
he had to gave up with a sigh

the smell of midden-heaped lanes
from the slum tenements
he had to bare for nights

he held both jobs
holding patron's horses
or prompter's attendant

and as destined to be a playwright,
his plays express aspects of life that transcend time
he wrote to be remarkable
and to put food on the table

illuminating human experience
a genius mind...

a playwright, poet and actor
that we will always admire.

A wailing ghost has found you.
Foolishy, you hoped to be free.
But that is how it plays with you.
A cat and mouse game, you see.

However did you get as far
In the frosty, wintry night
Without knowing your ache would return?
How could you think you'd be alright?

The haint is on your back,
And chillishly shrilling in your ear.
Maybe you did not bury your deeds deep enough.
Perhaps that is why you fear.

The awesome hatred is poured into your cup.
A spectral accusation never is one in vain
If it closely resembles the truth.
The guilty perish, for crimes that are never named.

'T'was a real feisty morning
and the cold wind lashed my heart
From a distance  I saw a colourful dress
flapping in the wind like a lyrical flag
And my poor heart spun like a crazy top

The basket sat firmly atop her country head
and the chiffon she wore matched the blue of the sky
The smile in her eyes gave truth to the age-old adage
about the heart being like the seed of a wild tree
that grows and flourishes where it will, come what may

She went down on her knees, supple and graceful
and spread her tie and dye wraparound on the ground
Then her heart called out to me in a profound lyric
even as she offered me her hand whose musical bangles
wove into the chorus of sounds from the cicadas and doves

My heart sang an acceptance speech in her honour
She of the hip-long locks of jet-black hair and hypnotic eyes
Enthralled, I wanted to drink from her candid eyes
Happily, she smashed the doubts I had had in days gone by
For I was the lucky man for whom all this was enacted

With a smile like the radiant rays of the rising sun
and a face from which a rainbow could rise
she gave me what she had walked miles to deliver:
a home-made round loaf from purest wheat off her field
She bade me eat and I did eat of this gift from the heart

I tried
Playing the
Wife part,
I tried loving
You
And
Staying
In
Y
O
U
R
Heart.
You kicked me
Out
Now I'm homeless
You were my home
Now you are my nightmare.
I don't want a home no more,
Better off homeless.

Here come the omen
Things for those mischief

Then. . .

The wind approached them with his coax
Indeed, love was his arms
But those imp mistreat his word of care

Now. . .

There they are in the land torrid
Where they've learned to beg
They've shouted "Let us Die"
But no ear listen
Alas! They've learned to cry

Regrets, If only they've heeded the counsel of the wind
Be punished not with eternal pain
They've asked for mercy again and again
But apocalypse's way... stayed the same...

Written: November 18, 2000 @ 6:30 pm
Mysterious Aries

From the days of arranged marriages to the current remarks about **** culture, it seems that no one is ever meant to be happy. Either settle or keep their peace, and understand that for every idiom there is, another is written to contradict the former. For example: The pen is mightier than the sword, but leave it to a lover to stab you in the back.

The same finger you use to wipe a tear will later be used to point and accuse. This is the figurative punch called emotional abuse. It's the air that escapes your lungs faster than leaving the atmosphere, ascending to a place called Heaven, but free falling to a home known as Hell.

What starts out as fingertips delicately caressing skin leads to a poke then a piercing sensation. It's standing with your right hand over your heart, speaking trivial, incoherent words, as your left side goes numb and your newly acquired slack jaw can easily be the reasoning you never hoped for.

Only a misanthrope can find understanding in distance, knowing that it has nothing to do with making a heart grow fonder. Isolation is conceived with a utensil, using a wandering eye to beseech a vast vocabulary and an abundant color palette.

The man that wrote purple mountains majesty wasn't staring at a landscape, but rather a wall in a room with a closed door. And every love letter written was never meant to be sent, it was only after something was lost that something was gained.