I cant drown them they can swim and,
I cannot simply float here much longer, they pull me down under,
only barely leaving my lips ,
touching the air.

and the air above,
is trying to let me breath,
Let me live,
but I can’t,
they wont let me,
they know how to steal the air,
and its almost like,
trying not to drown,
by trying to breath,
even though you know,
you cant breath,
so whats left?
just death?

The pain givers live in me,
they have stolen my heart,
and made it there home,
but that was not enough to stop at,
they get worse and worse,
and spread to the head,
to your brain,
and then in that event,
they go into your blood,
and thought stream,

and The Pain Givers,
travel and travel,
though my body,
and the are in every inch of me now,
and the cause me to hurt myself,
in ways that could really hurt,
if I wasn’t under this spell,

Now I’m scared,
and crazy,
and I cant turn to anyone,
I get so mad in my head,
“the PAIN GIVERS HURT ME!”
I scream in my head,
so no one can hear,
as they make me,
sink this knife into my skin,
now I have to hide,
the damage they did,

Now I act crazy and I stay alone,
who would want to be my friend,
I don’t talk to people any more,
I leave myself alone,
with my pain giver,
all the old name calling,
and broken promises,
stolen hopes and dreams,
and you don’t even have a right,
to say anyone understands,

I have no time to run away,
Part because I’m lazy,
part because I don’t know where to go,
and this sickness outside me,
kills me within,
and you don’t want to see,
the tears I have cried,
I don’t wear make up anymore,
and I carry eye drops,
so I can fix my eyes,
before someone will know.

I was that 14 year old girl,
who was forced to tear down,
her Christmas lights,
and tie myself around the neck,
I wrote a note saying,
my pain givers are hurting me,
mommy are you proud,
look at your child,
but its not your all your fault it,
was also this world of an awful race, now with my hands shaking wild,
I stood up on the chair,
and look down and my feet
and smiled,

then I kicked the chair over,
and took my final breath,
and now I’m just hanging there,
dead and alone,
Saying to the angel,
thank you for answering my preyers,
And getting me out,
But the angel smiles back,
The same smile of my pain giver,
And even in death I still cry,
*** my death will not satisfy me.

its the small things that
entice me to you
the way your glasses
kiss your cheekbones
the way you blush
when I cant
contain my stare
the way
your
voice is deeper than the pacific
and you are
as tall
as the leaning tower
I love how you
are scared of spiders
because I am too
I love that bone that gently emerges
when you
play violin
first chair
but that bone
entices me
almost as much as your smile
because you
fill the sum of your parts
with music

Dust flits gently on its arm; slowly & lazily.

As if not to cut, tear the patiently sewed seams.

Cotton against yellowing white thread.

*The sanctuary for reminiscing about mesmerising scenes

The throne for Kings and Queens without crowns to be seen

I'm overwhelm by ecstasy as I bask in this endless elation of delectation.

Each elbow edges back a bit
hands grasp the chair arm
Carbon levels in the atmosphere plummet as populations hold their breath in
anticipation

She moves with several smooth staccato shifts
Her hair swings like a tsunami wave
I try not to wave back.

I’ve seen piano keys with jerkier movements.
I’ve felt the world shift before
but never so smoothly.

She starts to stand, in slow-mo though
Even gravity can’t keep its hands off her for very long.

Somehow she strides
She strides!
Under the weight of that greatness

And after all the malarkey
She finally leaves the ******* room.

I was brought into this house
Ordered from the local furniture shop
Made to order according to specifications
I am a wingback,
Upholstered in full-grain leather  
True to my rich heritage
I was placed in the library
Amongst the illustrious works of famous writers
Half- a - century have passed, providing support
To the backbone of the family
Although tired, he finds solace in my cozy embrace
I give him my wings to fly into the world of literature
Cervantes, Bunyan, Bacon, Goehte, Dostoevsky, Chekov, Tolstoy
Some of the names from the illustrious collection
Not all were privileged to have a seat here
He was transported to each era, savoring the rich legacy
Of literature down the centuries
I was privy to the mind-boggling debates
Which he conducted with himself
Trying to reason each work of literature
A mere wingback rose to be a companion
Providing sturdy support on the mahogany legs
One fine day the reading session ended in deep slumber
Five decades of bonding and companionship came to an end
Now, I stand here, forlorn, at the corner of the library
Reminiscing the reading sessions, and siesta
The wingback does not have the wings to fly away from this bond




© Amitav (Radiance)

They say the third times the charm, but what if the third time is what pushes me to finally kick the chair that's under me?

This is dedicated to the chair in the room.

No, not the elephant. He is too obvious. He is merely an inconvenience people ignore as they go about their lives. I mean the chair in the room, rather all the chairs in our lives.

Chairs are silent, to us they only seem to have the purpose to support and comfort us. this is to those who go about their lives asking for little and drawing no attention to themselves. Yet they are always there to give us a break. To help us get our work done, to help our tired legs and minds.

This is to those who are selfless in their relationships. For they give no expectation of returned favor.

This is to the chairs in our lives.

She calmly unlocks the front door
as the wind flings the screen
through wild tantrums. She droops down
into her dusted rocker, pushing
with her lavender heels to start the sway.

Her sole taps softly,
as the chair creaks onto fallen lacquer
and the porch plays in discord
through dancing lace.

Interwoven hands lie atop her lap
in a sea of navy with floral ships
at its surface. Silver strands
fall from her clouded bun
and a few locks float past her sunken shoulders.

With jaded eyes she looks at the corner
to a poor table, where a cold candle
peaks among a grassy field of melted wax
riddled with burnt fuses.

And near the candle, a dusted white hat
remains anchored to the wooden surface.
She can still smell the stale cigar smoke
lingering in the room. “He’ll be here soon,”
she thinks as her daze slowly sets in.

The world seems quiet
as she fills her eyes with sleep
and the chair continues its march.
Her hands unlock from their grasp
and the screen door gently knocks.