I feel like I owe this to you,
even though I don't know your last name.
I don't know how you smile
when he tells you that you're beautiful,
and I don't know how you feel inside
when you're both laying in bed at night
after he takes what he doesn't deserve.
I don't know how you'll react
when you're finally honest with yourself
and realize that he is a prizefighter
and being with him is like a boxing match,
that you won't win without a struggle.
And every time the bell sounds
you'll be less and less equip to defend yourself
the longer you allow him
to keep ******* at
your sense of self.

So let me be your cutman,
wiping the sweat from your brow
and strongly suggesting you forfeit;
because eventually
his charisma and charm
will seem like a distant memory
and you'll forget
why you started this fight at all.
I guess I'm just trying to say
get out with your integrity intact,
while you still can,
and I hope
you never have to feel
the way I felt.

.
The street lamp barely pierces the gloom
as darkness fills up Nature's room.
Any icy breeze blows down the street,
the air is full of rain and sleet.

She stands beneath the murky light,
one of a few out working tonight.
Her clothes do not reflect the weather,
miniskirt, t-shirt, long boots of leather.

Pinprick marks upon her arm reveal
a habit to hide all that she feels.
A daemon that has to be well fed,
from money made in a punters bed.

A low rumble, the quiet is disturbed,
creeping slowly, pulling up at the kerb.
Quick furtive words, a deal is complete,
she opens the door, slides into the seat.

Sometime later she has returned to her place,
crying and shaking, blood on her face.
The blood on her shirt is already dry,
and purple black bruises adorn her eyes.

She does not complain, she does not speak.
It just happens. At least once a week.
There is always one will have his way,
beat her about, and refuse to pay.

Give her a minute to fix her smile,
she will be back in just a short while.
Waiting tartly to be once more defiled,
hoping tonight she can feed her child.

She dreams her daughter will never see
this sick, dark side of her society.
For her sake she hopes to escape
the drugs, the violence, and the ****.

Maybe one eve she will not show
her charms under the street lamps glow.
Has she escaped to a better life instead?
Perhaps she is in the river, floating dead?

But 'til then she walks the pavement.
Big smile, **** out, making a statement.
She won't wait long for another ride,
she will block out whatever happens inside.

And the cycle repeats almost every night,
beneath the lamp with the murky light.
This is her spot, her street, her world.
This is the life of a poor street girl.


© Pagan Paul (03/03/17)

Pale Prince Myshkin keeps vigil in a room
In which two aspects of civilization repose:
That which is dying, and that which is dead
That which is cold, and that which is very cold

The wounded healer waits, because he was asked
And harrows there the darkness with his light
He waits with the dead in a rented room
And on a hill, beside a waterfall

A keeper of souls for an appointed time
And his own is kept by Somebody Else

Steppin on the beach of nana’s shed floor
was like reaching land just off the lawn.
behind unkempt borders edged a
ribbon of flowers as a flush of memories
drifted.

A muffled whisper washed sepia toned moods,
twisted broken things seemed to talk
dummy like quitely in their boxes, rejected by
flighty owners now themselves discarded.

On the windowsill a porcelain cup caught
my eye – watermark of grime told me
where tea once floated. Nana leant
over in crisp white linen while old
China rested on the ledge.  

Lost without its handle useless article –
banished from the cabinet. Where a
scrolled  handle sprung there was
now a clean break, tossed up here
relieved yet wrecked.

A lifetime ago tea was served for
the up and coming set nana with
fixed ideas of dainty cakes swept
away drips on my face.

We are all used books-
A little warn- our pages
Sometimes torn, or frayed
Around the edges. Coffee stains,
Lipstick stains, and other various
markings covering words the new
Keepers of these books will never
Get to read. Annotations fill the sides,
Streaky highlighter runs over
Quotes that resonated with the reader
Who came before the last. Tabs and
Folded corners call attention to
Metaphors, riddles- everything
That needs analyzation and
Clarification.
We are passed down and handed out
Until we find a home at last- Someone who
still wants to read, what has
Already been read, many times before.

Back when tigers used to smoke
When turtles used to run,
Life wasn't dread like this
It used to be much fun!

One night i had a dream
I was living in a fairy land,
Playing hide n seek all day
And making castles of sand.

As i recall the dream, i realise
It was childhood that i had
Each moment living life to the fullest
Not knowing what means Sad?

That attempt to find happiness
In the smallest of things ,
Willing to fly high in the sky
As dreams had the wings!

In the rainy monsoon noons
Having waters on roadside,
Used to make paper boats
And see them float with pride.

Recess bell when rang in school
We all rushed out with joy,
Laughed while watching cartoons
Cried when broke a toy.

This ocean of memories
It surely has no shore,
One thing always makes me cry
“if I had lived it a bit more!”