Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
#1
#1
Don’t we, as sentient beings placed here on earth with such a limited time span, have the right to be happy? To not–to quote Thoreau, ‘lead lives of quiet desperation’?
It was spring
—there was a boy,
And with him was his father.
They sat along in rooms
That smelled of kerosene
And buzzed with machineries,
Their hands smudged black
With grime and plaster.

It was spring
—and his head was a golden halo.
How he was created,
I suppose we’ll never know.
So often the boy would ask,
“Father, father, what am I?”

(For if the father was trapped in his cage
With only a forge as his company,
Then what else could this little boy be?)

It was spring
—and the boy grew tall and proud.
Hair like fire and eyes like quicksand,
“My son, you will reach heights no man
Has ever reached before.”

It was spring
—and the father’s smile grew tired and weary
“I will not be caged,” and yet he was, he was.
Thus he took feathers from god-knows-where
And built wings from wax and cinders.

It was spring
—and my son, do not fly too close to the sun;
See there?
That is freedom—just do not fly too close to the sun.
And the boy nodded,
Little long nosed liar that he is.

It was spring,
—they say, when Icarus fell.
And here was freedom:
Wind sharp like glass
And the sun too warm,
The world minimal between his fingertips.
He burned bright, burned fast, died quickly.

(And they say the waves were gentle,
As clockwork spilled.)
Hers is a savage kind of beauty.
Unnoticeable at first,
but as you linger, you see it:
Her eyes: alert and constantly alight with naked brutality,
(The eyes of a tigress,
a predator searching for prey.)

Her chin: raised high and indomitable,
(Reminding him of the queens of old,
who wielded power like it is their own:
—a missing limb, a wretched Siamese twin.)

Her mouth: clipped words laced with steel and honey,
(Saying, “I have been broken,
and I have rose and rose again.)

She had the makings of a queen,
and her palace is the gutter that she sleeps in.
Forgive me father,
for I have sinned.
I have spilled my brother’s blood
and cursed humanity far worst than you did.
Doomed to be the creatures who invented ******,
Oh tell me, father, what have I done?

My demons won out
and my jealousy raged.
I let my anger consume me,
and my dragons grew stronger.

In my hand, I hold my brother’s beating heart,
Oh tell me,
tell me, father.
What have I done?
I am a woman.
I am not soft, I will fight back.
I will not be oppressed.

I am a woman.
I am human, I am alive.
There is blood in my veins;
I am no puppet made only to be displayed.

I am a woman.
I have my own wills, I have my own desires.
I will dye my hair red to embody the fire.
Fire that burns, thrives, prevails,
fire that lives inside me.
–I will out burn even the sun itself.

I am a woman.
I am strong and I am large,
and I too, contain multitudes.
I will defy even the universe itself if I had to.

I am woman.
I am not made of man.
neither sand nor ash nor to dust shall I return.
I am made of my own systems,
and when I die, I will shake the heavens.

And I am a woman.
I will not be destroyed.
not by anyone, not by you.
(remember that I am perfectly capable of that,
all by myself.)
blood stained walls
and dead flowers placed
on a matchbox:
it all reminds me of you.

what does it mean, little sister,
to be dead?
Does heaven exist,
(and so does hell too?)
Or do you not exist anymore?

I am Orpheus,
hell-bound and obsolete,
longing for what isn’t there.
It was a startling spectacle,
sad, sweet, saccharine,
a violin’s slow swell.
our mouths had clipped shut with words unsaid,
—breathless, stunned, aching,
a casual wave, followed by nights of bitter regret.

If I had asked you to, again,
in the right time, in the right place,
would you have run away with me?

For we had lied in desert waters,
and dreamt of cinematic dreams.
Drowned in our notorious luxuries,
of vending machines and stolen things.

And we had smoked cigarettes
and spent nights lying beside one another,
—blackouts,  confusion mixed with longing,
and the unshakable feeling
that our lives may be a mess,
but all had been right in the world.
I craved presence and dreamt of intimacy:
of arms wrapped tight around me in the darkness
and lips like wildfire scorching throughout my skin.

Of midnight drives and trips to crowd-less theaters,
chafed balaclavas and pseudo-****** sprees.

Of laughter and a smile not like the sunlight
but the moon's: enigmatic, forlorn, lonely.

Of self-destruction and notorious luxuries,
and hands, laced against my own,
comforting, solid,
a drop of water in the desert.

(A kind of love that could give me what I wanted,
and what I wanted was oblivion.)
What will I gain
If I lose my soul and own the world,
you ask?

Power. Glory. Contentment.
(My life would be chaotic, but fulfilling)
For what is the use of a soul,
if I am breathing and yet not living?

So you yell me about the purpose of souls:
next lives—rebirth and reincarnation.

But I tell you this:
“This world is a cesspool,
and one life is enough for me.
So long as I lived it
in sybaritic ecstasy.

— The End —