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 Nov 2015 Inayat Vasal
J Valle
His body emerged
From the deep blue ocean
Heart barely beating and
Eyes almost closed

They left him for dead.

The sun's light burned him
And its heat suffocated him
But he kept wondering
How would it feel
To touch the sun.

Once again,
Icarus rose
Towards the sun

Believing this time
Things would be different
But as long as the sun
Remains the sun
And Icarus
A blind believer
Fate won't change its course

So, once again,
Icarus fell.
And found himself
More broken
Than before.
 Oct 2015 Inayat Vasal
Y Rada
I know when life abandoned me
When dreams and the future slipped away
When the joy and freedom died

I exactly know the time when fear called
When confusion clouded my eyes
When loath lived in my heart

I know when hope and despair united
When tears fell nightly of shame
When love is just another word

The moment when secrets are revealed
The cure of it is nowhere to be found
When I found out of my chronic illness
 Oct 2015 Inayat Vasal
Y Rada
It is difficult to be a man,
For I am not a typical one.
It is hard for me to go on,
There’s a secret that pulls me.

I loathe when my memories strike,
They hit emotionally with might.
I struggle so much to survive,
In a world so deaf towards my cries.

I look at a He and my heart convulses,
For I recall a He who gave me kisses.
I was young, forced and naïve,
I fought but He was much stronger.

Society might tell that I’m gay,
For I let a man violated me in a way.
But I’m not a ***** and I’m sure,
I play a role for which others envy.

When I was a teen I met her,
I admired her even if she’s older.
I was then shy and very timid,
With mental and emotional scars.

I thought of her as a dear friend,
Then she turned to be my worst fiend.
One instance she forced herself on me,
And used things that hurt me so.

A girl’s tactics differ from the stronger ***,
Tears she used first and blackmail next.
She was cunning, sly and very clever,
She stole my pride and my dignity.

My fears now mixed with anger,
My determinations got bolder.
I still cry and sometimes get lonely,
Like any other victim I want to fight.

I can not shout to the whole nations,
For societies will scorn at my declamation.
Both sexes forgot that I have feelings too,
I am also made of flesh, bones and spirit.

I am not proud of what I become,
Within me clouding reasons try to calm.
My desire is to win this battle to the end,
I am capable of vulnerability like any human.

But where does my right begin?
This universe has compassion for women.
The likes of me are expected to be steel made,
Yet I have feelings too for I am just a man.
Dedicated to all abused males by other men and to the men abused by females. A simple shout out to the world that I care…that I have heard your cries… and that you are still loved.
 Oct 2015 Inayat Vasal
J Valle
What are this tears
running down my face
doing?
Who let them escape?
Who let them exist?
What is their point?
Their salt only sours my soul
And their warm mocks,
To the cold of my heart.
Who said tears
could do you well?
What's the good
In feeling so small?
It feels like I'm melting
I'm so sick of it
Who would've thought
You would do me so wrong?
 Oct 2015 Inayat Vasal
ryn
our bread and butter...
     the web of stars,
     the scatter of moons
     and orbiting planets.

the entire universe
harvested and crammed
into the metre,
of a poetic verse.

our bread and butter...
     harnessing the regal rays of the sun.
     inflating the fluff of quiet clouds.
     drinking up the winds of the weather.
     revering the magic in the flight of birds.

we fill our cups to the brim...
with fantastical dreams
and let spill
over parchment
the cornucopia of idealised words.

our bread and butter...
the incessant peeling and picking
on healing wounds.
of which we have learnt to savour...
     let bleed
     the willing blood...
     feed the seeds
     with impending flood.

nurture to fruition
thoughts stunted in discretion.
bring to light
thoughts hidden in the nether.

our bread and butter...
we dip...
the nibs,
of our word worn feathers.
let them sink,
shallow beneath the surface
to the sanctity of a familiar place.
     *casting our trials,
     and tribulations...
     pent up emotions,
     and what we think
     unto paper
     with the burn of
     everlasting ink.
Mr. Nobody--
A wrangly thing
some could call him a snob
or a high chinned minister
who was ordained
with a polished Apple-Phone
and his signature
swirlesque embroidered
wrist cuffs and tie clip.

He is the founder
to any computer based company
that processes tiny micro-chips at a price of
99 cents, and charging 100 dollars
for each "upgrade".

In his spare time
he's sponges around
lofty paintings,
filtering through new and old antiques,
but always coming back
to lackadaisly lounge
around his things.

Where a house is
up-kept by maids,
and in his closet
hangs the silhouettes
of personalities,
that he likes to try
around his family.

This is what I imagine
of Francisco, the boy buying coffee
at this Local Caffè
and as he leaves
that Apple-Watch lights up
reminding
about a job interview today.
I think this involves the idea of who we think someone is and who they really are.  Every perspective on someone can be infinite possibilities.  Maybe I told the life he is going to live or just a life he could live or is it even my own life?
 Oct 2015 Inayat Vasal
J Valle
Look at the clouds
Swimming in the deep blue
Of the sky
And I'm [not] thinking of you.

Hear the birds
Singing their lungs out
Preaching their love to the morning
And I'm [not] crying.

Feel the warm of the sun
How it ignites your skin
With the heat of the universe's stars
And I'm [not] ready to start.

Gaze over
To the boy sitting alone
Who is [not] in denial.
 Oct 2015 Inayat Vasal
AlanK
She’s lovely and petite,
Long flowing blonde hair,
The target of constant
Unwanted attention,
The **** of many crude jokes.
Though you can’t deny it
There is a kernel of truth
To every stereotype.
Shallow. Yes she is shallow.
Shallow as the flood waters
Three inches deep, powerful
Enough to sweep your car
Into a watery grave.
Superficial. Yes she is superficial.
Superficial as the thin layer
Of paint on a Renoir or Monet
Colors translucent and divine
Deep and lustrous
Transporting the imagination
To a world of romance and joy.
Clueless. Yes she is clueless.
Clueless as Sherlock Holmes
As he solves a mystery as dark
And complex as any labyrinth
With nary a clue, save for a trail
Of breadcrumbs and a scent of
Gardenia.
Airhead. Yes she is an airhead.
An airhead like the thinnest of air
Atop the mighty Himalayas where
Holy men choose to transcend the
Mundane and commune with
Spirits subtle and ethereal and ultimately
Unknowable.
The world sees her beauty and perhaps
Only her beauty, but they are blinded
By their shallowness, superficiality,
Cluelessness and a brain wallowing
In the clouds of misty ignorance.
Therein lies the joke.

— The End —