A paper box filled with crumpled newspapers
Carrying death notes, attempted ****** stories
And the failed political agendas
(Failed I say for I personally see no difference).
Neatly stacked they would take
Only the bottom half of the box,
But since the papers were to be rid off,
And the papers carried blood,
Shoved were they like ***** secrets
In that plain paper box.
That action somehow now
Turned the box into a closet
Filled with dusty winter coats
From a life past,
The clothes might fit your body
But they won't fit your soul.
O' my friend added today
How she hasn't seen me in black
Since the last time I returned,
She said it as a fact,
But somehow that hurt and
It felt like fear- my mumbled ignorance.

The box lay in the middle of the room,
The room itself empty,
Sold were each artifact
Over the past few months,
To get back
What they had stolen in the first place.
I no longer fought when
My favourite tin can was taken,
It too had rattled the pockets,
It bled for our tummy.
The box lay out of place
Like all of us,
Trying relentlessly to fit in,
The balled up papers
Sticking out the *****,
A triangle there and a lonely strip here.
I could read few words of different stories
And create a new lie,
But the lies seemed silly even for me,
I needed something else.
You might ask why not burn them,
Why not shred them,
But even fire creates smoke
And secrets never really die,
We always, always hide them,
Paint over them with lies.

So the box,
Now being there long enough,
Wasn't kicked over
Like the many times before,
It lay there, carefully maneuvered
By the liars and the sinners
Of the house.
But their breath stopped
Every time they walked into the room.
Like they didn't wish to inhale the dust
And the stories of the box,
Like their lungs would be infected
The same way their hearts were.
But the shameful box had secrets
Staining red over time, dripping blood
And spilling black soot of lies,
Flies buzzed around now and yet
Why did we not discard it,
I thought.
What was so special about our lies,
Our sins
That we keep the box around
And not hide it but be ashamed of it?
Why do we keep it in our homes still
If all it does is poison us?

Why do we keep our old loves
Alive in our memories?

Difference has been seen
Old has been gone
History has been written
No editing at all
Unlaced it from your skin
Frame it as your prize
Learn from it &
Apply it in your life
Catch the glittering future
Leave the fading past
Hold onto your dreams
Start your journey with pride
Same is bland , spice is nice
Ups & downs , Glad or glum
Cherish them all, you'll be fine
Relish all way long , that's life
Walls will be laced up
sooner than blink of an eye
Then you'll complete
the journey of your life
That would be the last
Lace of your life .

“Nobody owns life, but anyone who can
pick up a frying pan owns death.”
– William S. Burroughs

Through a door that is not mine
that’s left ajar from time to time
we see a man with zany eyes
scarred-up face, mouth full of lies.

Through a window at an ungodly hour
the night our neighborhood lost power
we see the man pull on a mask
and knit the weavings of his task.

I should have gotten quite the scare
when he pulled that woman by her hair,
then tossed her in the hole he’d fill
and quickly cover with daffodils,

but I’m no stranger to playing detective;
his plots have proven rather defective.
A call to the cops brings a rap on his door
that eventually leads to the lush garden floor.

Now, I don’t think I’m deserving of fame
my ego is simply much too tame
but I have kept dark things from view
and you listen well, so I’ll share with you.

There is something you should recognize
in that man with zany eyes;
don’t always believe what you’re told to see,
for he who plants the daffodils is me.

"Goodbye" was the title of the poem
It was rather lengthy now to read
About the struggles of a girl
Suicide , and cutting just to bleed

I left a short comment there to see
And moved on down the page
And I never thought about it again
Time passed on by in days

Then last night I saw a poem
And it was titled "Thanks"
It was from the mother of the girl
Saying she committed suicide last night

in a world
split into
groups of
two, what
and how and

                                 where
do I belong?
In the gender
binary, I feel
placeless. Not
quite sure if I

                                 will
ever belong
anywhere.
People say that
I am stuck
a woman, that

                                 I
will never be
a real man.
That when
I finally meet
my “well-deserved”

                                end
I will go to
the bad side
of the binary
of the afterlife.
They say I’ll end

                                 up
in Hell, just
for being me.