Busking. Panhandling. Begging.
An artist’s most submissive position.
Music’s all-powerful mystery beholden to pocket change.
Until a blind man, guitar in hand,
On the Blue Line platform,
Plucks from an unsuspecting heart
An unmistakable theme-
“What can you say about a 25-year-old girl who died?”
One bill and some coins in his collection basket,
A mysterious, gentle reminder-
Dynamics come wholly undone.
I drop in my all-powerful dollar,
All aboard the train.
Down here, I will
Write for the first time in nearly three years.
Endures & Binds,
Provocations Looseth the Soul.
Submissive & Impulsive,
Yet so Very
Paradoxical a Paranoid !
Forges & Sharpens,
Life's Brunts Maketh the Soul.
Ironic & Caustic,
Yet so Very
Powerful a Predominance !
Fosters & Transcends,
Identity Forageth the Soul.
Narcissistic & Intransitive,
Yet so Very
Surreal a Sacrifice !
Tried to spell out the mind-games many of us play in our everyday lives while struggling to maintain the ethical equilibrium.
We tend to go passive in passion when it comes to self imposed restraint, but we also fret about lost opportunities.
We cling onto trust levels gained from the heat & hammering's of our own long term past experience's and thereon it starts dominating our lives.
Many a times we willfully thaw the heights of our egoistic vanity and rise above material frenzy to witness the never before experienced bits of ecstatic brilliance.
Cornered like a rat in a cage,
unable to vent my mental rage,
trembling on the brink of doom,
I stand submissive in my gloom.
I blink my eyes to hide the tears
and smile a smile to hide my fears.
I ***** my way through daily chores
and long to be behind closed doors.
I focus on my paperwork
to chase away the thoughts that lurk.
The answers to questions are slow to arrive,
the curse of not knowing makes it hard to survive.
This stifling suppression creates a knot of suspense,
paralyzing my mind and makes muscles tense.
The mushroom cloud rises
the dread day is near,
my depression consumes me,
I'm no longer here!
Religion has such power. It guides in a
certain direction while allowing the followers
to take on their own life. They are submissive
despite its controlling ways.
I worship you, and you worship the moon.
It has such control over you. It allows
your tides to rise and to fall. Yet, you are
not forced, you prefer to adhere
to it's gentle push and pull.
I have no religion but you.
Perhaps the moon is as unknowing of
its control over you, as you are unknowing
of your control over me. It is pleasant
to allow you control.
For you, I am tidal.
Intimate grooves on old face
Diffused hair, trebling lips
Not know what he had thoughts?
No one may be he had
If has then not he had too
Was society here and there?
Sitting like as opened eyes
But looks like deceased eyes
Then he feels submissive now.
Obesity and malnourishment
from high tides of anxiety
Gargling on plastic-filled saline
trapped by ancient propriety
Stuffed into a submissive pit
deprived of real variety
Our vices clearly failing
while we ridicule sobriety
This hunger's for the birds
because we live in a society
His lips going down my neck, a quick lick.
A hickey between my *******, ripped shirt.
His hand sitting at the base of my neck, lips on lips
one of them I bit,
a moan back I received.
Clothes off, his wandering eyes locked on my body.
Now his hands were tracing my curves.
They stopped, then a stinging I felt.
One that I enjoyed.
His body on mine against the wall, my legs tied on his back.
Caring were his hands, then a squeeze;
My moans couldn’t I resist.
His breath on my neck burned my skin;
I prayed the wetness between my legs would help him calm down his flames,
And that his flames would cause a river to flow down my legs.