Nobody's home,
In this heart of mine.
Nobody lives,
In the thoughts of mind.

Desolation can be a contended life,
The emptiness of loneliness is kind.
Ring the freedom bells and free,
The sheep that dissent in a fit of pique.
Why needlessly slaughter, one at a time,
When they themselves jump off the cliff,
All in a row, at the end of the chime.
In reckless abandon,
you ink your thoughts.
Rapacious for freedom,
Steadfast for your cause.

Is there madness abound,
In the methods you enlist?
A wanton desire in your being,
the world to undo at its seams.

Is it passion that drives, this your quill?
Impetuous and without pause
Or are you in life, simply adrift?
A rebel with too many a cause.

Accuse you I shall to my heart's content,
The victim I shall blame
For I am with you but in this unjust world
it's you versus my ilk

Maybe true freedom it means,
to fight me and men.
With this scribbling of ink
and this unruly your pen.
Jude Isaac Lobo Nov 2017
Breath, it comes, with a heaving drain,
For this night, it bores, through my brain.

Sight, it peers, bootless, vain,
The melange of silence keeping me sane.

So here I sit in the darkness, seeping,
I exist, not happy but at least not weeping.
Jude Isaac Lobo Jul 2016
How high we build our fortress,
to escape what we dare not face.
How strong we make it's walls.

How powerful we make our bastion,
Sacrificing to it who we are, in fragments.
How tireless we work in our fear.

And yet when you are finished,
That you are over it and done.
It hits you and you crumble,
Into the dust where you had begun.
Jude Isaac Lobo Nov 2015
To rip to shreds,
the innocence of dawn.
To make strong,
the resolve of noon .
To write anew,
the wisdom of dusk.
That is life.
Jude Isaac Lobo Oct 2015
Gleaming white paper
from the mill to my home,
Bright white paper,
In my desk now stored.

A story shall I write,
maybe a poem my own
Or in my hands crumple
and throw it when it's torn
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