I like it when sudden rains break my plans.
I can turn my bike around to where I'd rather be.
I like it when my plans, woven in reluctant compulsions,
outweigh themselves from absorbing all the liquid intent.
I like it when hollow expectations, culprits of my plans,
overflow due to complacent nature of futility.

My plans, an accidental pregnancy, have much to gall
And I like it for they no longer stand tall.

Treacherous tongue.
Warning unrung.
Nothing will tire
This unquenched desire.
Consumed and yet not.
A battle little fought.
The huge, the puny-
Platter’s destiny.
Tresspassed precinct.
Animal Instinct.
Fire in the belly.
Encore. Gluttony.

A bird in hand
And two in the bush.
No bar, no band
To where you push.
Selfish hoard-
An overload.
Brick by brick
The old trick.
Trespassed precinct.
Animal instinct.
Perpetual feed.
An oceanic greed.

No one's watching.
Or so he thinks.

Closeted. Red.
Corrupt. Abrupt.
Jarring & Tarring.
Obsession. Infatuation.
Sweet confrontation.
Voiced. Unvoiced.
Heat. Discreet.
Prohibited discovery.
Trespassed precinct.
Animal instinct.
Sinful rust.
A burst of Lust.

A binge-like fire
Of heights and higher.
An edge achieved
from probable deceit.
A craze of sorts;
Felt and dealt.
Many rose.
Many knelt.
Trespassed precinct.
Animal Instinct.
Hard to hide.
A ride of Pride.

I was on my back.
His head moved away, downward,
clearing my line of sight;
I looked with wonder-
more of disbelief-
at a leaf held by the ceiling.
I felt him dig,
“Are you inserting yourself?”
“Just the finger. Look.”

Come back home, to warmth, to roof.
Come back home, I'll take a hoof.

Lying in your bed
are strands of her hair.

She knows. She let them there.

Next time
don't give birth
to a child
if you can't
allow one a life.

Dreams that I slept
in your lap, on your chest

Pyres that I leapt
over and over, at your behest

Crevices I crept
through, while you'd rest

Will heave weeps adept
when their sights arrest
the unnoticed attempts.
my bereft nest, your thriving theft.

Have you ever tried to hold close somebody who is crying?
You're so uncomfortable to offer
the impersonal tissue or the personal handkerchief
so you extend your hand, and shoulder, and chest
for it's right atop your heart.

Soon there is snort on your shirt you just don't know of from all the wet.
What's on your shirt is absorbed by your cloth
and is dispersed by its fabric.
There it finds contact with your skin
that is replete with pores that run very deep
but aren't armoured with the right toxins.

It stings- first sign of assault. You deny- first step to acceptance.
Your insides have all it takes to reach out.
So they do. And you, have traded iron for rust.
A binging blood can't tell that.

Your systems turning against you was just the first strand
of the crosshairs as you wrapped around me.
Salty fluid shards of me, inconspicuously stabbing into you.

A simmering start-
Unjust behaviour
Or a broken heart.
Angry transformation.
Vindictive ambition.
Infernal condition.
Anguish and trauma.
All incurred.
Trespassed precinct.
Animal Instinct.
The wounded hath
The curse of Wrath.

I'm a button.
Plain. Inane.
The shirt, the frock,
silk or cotton
they call me a pain.

The thread of colors
Tempts me all right.
And then I'm held
in crisscross layers,
Helplessly uptight.

I make it a promise
to snip off and roll down
the clutches of the thread,
and make my way
into the refuge of
The supple fingertips
The dulcet touch
of your blessed hands,
without even frowning,
without a ping.
Even if it means
being stitched back again
into the piece of dull clothing,
a thousand times over.