Hair burned into beautiful submission
Face acrylically defined and chemically composed
Adornments meticulously chosen
Scent tested and approved
Smile practiced and performed
I am a porcelain doll
Sipping tea, at 6 am in the quiet of a sleepy-city apartment
Porcelain doll dainty wrists
Washing dishes, feeding cats
Folding linens, singing hymnals
Praying for peace and safety
Porcelain doll knitting sweaters
And folding paper cranes
Reading poems, setting tables
Wearing cardigans and pearls
Porcelain doll decorating cupcakes
Lighting scented candles
Watering potted plants and humming childhood lullabies
With my porcelain painted lipstick mouth


But lipstick can be dark
Eyes lined black as city alley ways
There is anger at injustice
The world outside the confines of a pastel doll house
It’s messy
It’s hard
It’s iron and concrete and coal
And I am too
Biking through the brick metropolis
Sunglasses and headphones
And anarchist literature
Evenings spent sprinting through the smog
Heartbeats synchronized to the crude drumming of the city
So hard to impress
I’m on the metro
Eyebrows structured and defined
And adorned with a calculated air of apathy
See me social justice march
Down highways with fervently entitled youths
See me armed against misogyny
Until my peers learn to better conceal it
See me smoking cigarillos
Drinking black coffee
Breathing the tainted air of the city that birthed me
And chanting manifestoes.

But my manifesto can be love
And love can conquer anger and fear
And hatred
Love can reconcile, it can erase timidity
And it can abolish resentment
Let it wash my face and take the need for vengeance from my spirit
Let it replace the thirst for power with thirst for truth.
I burn incense
And wear long skirts
Naked face and braless lazy days
Reading pacifism in the park
I walk far to find pure air to breathe
I sit and deconstruct my dichotomy
Under a wise and ancient tree
I trace myself backwards and forwards
I meditate on the paths I have traveled
I cry for the things I have seen
And for the things I have done
I contemplate transcendence
I drink wine and listen to folk music
On the terrace of my home
I bike barefoot to buy Indian takeout
And eat it in silence on the floor of an empty room

I think only of death
And resurrection
Of betrayal and redemption
Of opposites and compliments
And how to progress in knowing how divergent pieces of myself can learn to harmonize
I think about minimalism and materialism
Sentimentalism
And swords and pens
And how this race I run was rigged from the start
I think about blackberries
And the complexity of their literary and symbolic significance
I think about the number seven as I see it reoccurring in every possible sequence and equation
I think about God,
And TS Eliot
And If I dare disturb the universe
I think about porcelain dolls and ****** activists and ***** hippies
I think about war and peace and politics
About corruption and poverty and imperialism
About western ideals and conspiracy theories
And communism
I think about being radical,
And how both sides of this ideological war are defined by fear
And I think about love, as radical but defined by the absence of fear
The absolution of fear
And how I am fairly certain it is the answer
I think about the inevitability of art and war
how they create each other
how they destroy each other
inspire each other and annihilate each other
and how there is nothing that is innocent.
I think about pain and privilege
And stacked decks of cards
I think about dreams and nightmares
And prophesy.
I think about the darkness within me
Tendencies to lie and manipulate and steal
The darkness that I know could make me very great
But alone in the ashes of the world
I think of the curse of wealth and power
And I try to evaluate my motives
And the driving force of my ambition
But I don’t know.
I think about grace and all the things I don’t understand
And toil and fate and destiny
The shape of these things, their origins and culminations
And what this black box of secrets contains.
I think about so many things,
Until everything I was on the outside is gone.
My body is gone
My painted face and sculpted hair
My varnished nails and pierced ears
All my clothes and appendages and freckles are gone
My blood evaporated
My brain an invisible energy in the wind.
My home and street
And city
Are gone.
And even in such complete concentration
When it is only my essence and nothing else
And I transcend throughout my past and future
When I am spread thin
And stretched into the corners
When I fill the cracks and crevices
And melt into the pores of everything
And my spirit is awaked to a dimensionless reality
Even then,
Scio Nihil

I know nothing. .

World is moving on , & Globe is vanishing on,
World is developing on , & Globe and Glacier's  is  decreasing on,
World researches and expriement & Globe  eats carbon and carbon,
Imagine what happen if we eat  excess of carbon in human body,
Then  think what happens about Globe who eat carbon each nano seconds
Imagine  human body  never tolerate excess of carbon ,
Then how Globe  tolerate excess of carbon,
It  dies every nano seconds and generates "GLOBAL WARMING" &
Gives dangerous  threats and warning to the World.
And we all are sufuring from Changing Environment Season's.
Who will compromise from  Ultra Carbon Technology,
Carbon  is eating Globe day by day &
Earth is becoming hot like a Volcano's Lava.

I am living in a personal hell.
I burn brightest when nights are darkest.
I suffer in silence, because
It is too hard for me to show my emotions.
I don't want anyone to worry about me,
Because my bleeding emotions is always mine.
Now my heart is fragile.
I whisper,
How long must i suffer in silence?
I think it is too much.
I am always at war, with
My own thoughts and hopes.
I have come to the end.
Now i can feel the death's hands envelope my neck.
Slowly, i am loosing my breath.
I will miss my depression.
I will miss crying in the shower.
I will miss the voices.
I will miss my sufferings in silence.
I am slowly progressing but advancing nevertheless.
Ah!
It is over.
I am fine,
it is the easier term for you to hear,
And to think everything is fine.

Scoring at the genius level,
Never a thing he did
That was worthy of his high intelligence.
No teacher whose IQ could match,
No vocation and no calling
Worth the time to spend in college.
What could they teach him
Anyway he asked,
In his superior knowledge?

A depressing world to one so keen
And so he focussed inward
At his liver and his spleen
An alcoholic blizzard
To numb the boredom and the pain
Of such imperial wit
As years rolled by the bar door
He wanted none of it.

And now he's old and hasn't been
And likely isn't going to
Because a fool so long ago
Bowed low before his IQ.