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Grey Jan 13
It's not my fault
that you've stolen my heart.
January 13, 2020
S Nirmal Kumar Oct 2018
Deafening silence enveloped pitch-dark night
Perfect setting
For burglary
Luna Fides Mar 2018
i witnessed a burglary today.

kids were seating at the back side of the jeepney
***** feet hanging,
snot running down their noses
the one beside me says,
“these kids will be thieves one day.”
and i look at these
little mud-eyed ones
filled with silent anger
and confusion.

if this is how we cast them
how could they change something
that was molded in stone for them?

we are responsible for the next generation
and yet we rob these children
a chance to create their own identity
and blame them for things
we should’ve
jeepney is a public form of transportation in the Philippines
Harriet Maguire Apr 2016
That sharp uptake of air, breath.
Shaken awake you wonder?
A draught?
Maybe, please?
As you panic search
For a clue.
A window open in the bathroom maybe?
Or maybe it was your imagination?
Or perhaps...
The crime drama clink and ****** of
Broken glass.
The familiar mechanics
Of your back door lock?
Fear grips you.
You lie full of breath and wait
And pray and wait
Pray and wait.
You strain ears into an artex ceiling.
You must have imagined it?
A tired minds trick!
That's all it was.
A different deep breath and
You resign yourself to sleep.
The dark eases as you do,
Your eyelids drawn curtains
To the waking world.
Your mind strolling casually
Stopping to smell poesy's,
Or think on tomorrow's breakfast,
Turning stones with a trainer toe.
Till your almost there...
And back it snaps you!
On red alert!
It wasn't a thief!
That last stone you turned
Wasn't a stone!
But a brick.
With the glistening still warm flesh
Of that frog you killed.
Aged 9.
A memory you wish was dead of night
Men stealing through your house.
Instead of truth.
The thought of that time when
You tripped or cried.
Or ****** stained your pale school skirt
And Izzy Flemming told the boys
You were ripe?

Quick they come!
Those forgotten scenes
Tucked away in the minds mass grave
Turfed over until just now,
With paparazzi flash bulb speed they come,
If only they would lie flat so you could sl-
That belch during mass too!
As every head seemingly swung,
To stare your Crimson cheeks down.
The chronology is wrong
But it was always wrong wasn't it?
Your Wrong
And for a second you wish
You were being burgled.
But you are...
Sort of.
Not by masked men in jack boots
But by memories you can't repress.
The pit of your stomach sits up in bed.
You let out a sigh,
An almost silent 'oh'
As your brain dregs up
The canal rusted bike frame
Of your inadequacy.
Sleep will escape you
And that artex ceiling will stare back.
It's paper mâché patterns
Have eyes now.
Every wrong you ever wronged,
And every right you took,
When you should have headed left,
Will blush in the dark.
As your brain, a hardened criminal
Uses your heart as a crow bar
To jimmy open the garage door,
Where all your failings are parked.
Still working on it...

— The End —