The photo of her high tea                            
With its flowery cups,                                  
Its cookies and scones,                                
Arranged in aesthetic order,                      
Filtered to perfection and                            
Posted online soon after,                            
Is her current most-liked.                              

The scene of him frailly
Scouring the waste truck,
His skin invaded by bones,
And bathed in gloomy odour,
Painted with deprivation and
Destitute disorder,
Doesn't make it to the spotlight.

*The High Tea meanwhile, earns another Like

What a marvel,
The truth that we
Are dying from the
Moment we have
Come to life,
Our existence is mere
Tug and pull between
De- and regeneration,
Our body prods our cells on,
Pumping short-lasting elixir
Into their microscopic selves,
Ions and stars of energy
Rushing in and gushing out,
We are nothing but
The friendly contest
Between flourish and decay,
One will lose tomorrow,  
The other concedes today.

I wonder how much sugar it'll take
To drown your bitter aftertaste

Never really mastered the art of intrigue,
I sometimes wish I had that skill,
Of treading light,
Of being the diva
Surrounded by a mist of aura,
Controlled in laughter,
Calculatedly revealing,
Measuredly unraveling
Her inner self.
I stomp in love,
I bare it all in love,
I laugh with abandon,
I shout with animation,
I cry in immoderation,
I never really learnt to leave
Anything for the imagination,
And it's the greatest gamble,
The toughest game,
To tear your heart out and
hold it in your palm,
And show it to them,
Look, this is how I beat,
Not many can deal
with someone this real.

Showing up unceremoniously
From behind prissy waistbands unyielding,
Giggling out between breaths ****** in,
Unabashed, untamed rolls of me,
Not needing flattering illumination or angles,
Only truth-shopped and real-brushed,
Sharp with their curves and bends and curls,
Their glory making me feel like the cover girl
That i am.

He doesn't have to be
A poetry person
To be my person

I warned him I was poison,
That my womb spouted lava,
That there was fire between my legs
And it spared no visitor,
Yet he laughed, the fool,
And the proud, vain loon,
Did not pause a moment before
Barging in unwanted,
Like he had, into ninety-nine
other forbidden heavens,
Eager to add a tale more of dominance,
To the ninety-nine others
He would proudly tell,
Only to emerge- consumed,
scorched, devoured by my fumes.
Hadn't I told him I was hell?

I look happy, don’t I?
there are no cuts on my wrists
all you see
is the smile on my lips
maybe even a spark in my eyes
and all you hear
is me telling everyone i'm fine
maybe even a laugh once in a while

but when will you look deep into my eyes
look beneath the spark and the blue color
see the emptiness and the darkness in me

   when you will realize
the smile is a facade
i'm not happy, it's fake, i'm hiding my tears
   when you will see
the spark is a blur
i'm not happy, i’m on the edge to tears
   when you will hear
the laugh is a scream
i'm not happy, i’m choking on pain

did you check my heart? it’s filled with scars

*(s.m)