There was once a buggered old hen,
who thought of writing with a pen.
But her nose went pink
when she drank some ink.
Gagging, she cried, 'Never again!'

Stroking strings and
feathered wings.

I read you,
and the way you
form your words,
your silence, which
lingers in the air.

What truths do you hide,
and the tricks up your sleeve
which peek stealthily past,
as you work your mind
into drunken frenzies.

Death evades me.

Not all pretty words
are lies.

Some are but mere veils,
itching for a soothing touch
upon a poet's burning soul.

And when those layers of words
upon words are unveiled,
(if one dares to)

know that underneath all
that rubble, one last hiccup
is being taken.


Not all pretty words
are lies.

Some are but mere longings
and fantasies; a kingdom
of smoke a poet builds, where
inky demons prowl and
leave footprints.

And when all that
mist is dissolved, with
naked truths dangling mid-air,

know that beyond that fallen
kingdom, a poet lies broken,
yet half - mended.


Those pretty words, the only
companion in a completely
unsimplistic world.

"Women like you!" - he spat.
And in those three words,
flowed the venom which drowned
everything else. ..

I saw the tears in your smile,
the nervous tension you attempted
to mask with rapidly overlapping
words, the edge in your voice,

a resounding crash of reality trying
to bring us back from neverland...

but my ears sought your voice,
strained against the winds of time,
as each second felt like an hour,
which we hadn't lived a minute of...

and each of your various efforts
to push me away, lay scattered...

I heard the silence in your breaths,
made meaningful by the sweet
nothings you whispered next,
sliding ever so gently across my skin,

like someone poured whiskey
on a cold afternoon.

What is love without trust,
I wondered throughout the day, as I heard
the sound of my heart quietening;

the frost which had begun
to melt, made its way back
through broken heart beats.

What is love without trust,
I asked you, but silence rushed by,
amidst heavy breaths, and


we pretended, yet again,
on the edges of normalcy.

When appearing dense becomes
the fashion status, and highlighting
on certain aspects just seem
to lose its light,

elaboration becomes just another
phenomenon,  yet another phrase,
another courtesy which I no longer
feel to follow through.

And when words have lost
their desired effect after
what seems like a lifetime
of deceitful lies being unveiled,

a giggle escapes unintentionally
silent, as I ponder over the
comical turn of events.