Two stories, intertwined to weave a web,
Of elaborate lies and hidden secrets.
Parallel truths of a renowned city:
London, the city where they come to live.
London, the city where they go to die.

A cacophony of colours, vibrantly singing,
Reds that foxtrot and blues that Waltz,
Twirling, swirling, laughing, swinging,
Shining bright till dawn takes its course.

Whilst peeling greys in burnt out husks
Of building's corpses, thrown down by the tantrum of time,
Get signed by the shaking hands of addicts,
In dripping graffiti and shattered windows.

In an office, hands soft from perpetual ease,
Poking out from crisp white sleeves,
tap methodically at keys,
Maintaining a facade they all believe.

A few streets down, fingers:
Tobacco stained and streaked with yellow,
Pierce a quivering needle into
Their master's begging flesh.

A girl who seeks definition in numbers,
Who needs a crowd to hear her message,
Seeks knowledge in eternal wonders
Of London streets' bleeding essence.

Yet the boy who drowns in pounding feet,
Melts into the din of a thousand voices,
And his voice pleads a dying whisper,
As he loses himself to anonymity.

By the light of the underground
These juddering truths are evident,
In the despondent eyes fixed on filthy floors,
And the eyes dancing with potential, flitting around the crowds,
Waiting for a chance to shine.

London is a lock that guards two doors,
And we are the key that determines our fate.

isn't it funny
how the shape of your hand
fits perfectly into the curve of my waist,
but not the spaces between my fingers?
that's lust, darling,
not love.

We were young
but still not old
stuck between telling
and still being told
trying to resale lies
we once were sold
and we wonder why
our souls cry in pain
as we deliberate
which ones will be sold today

It is and isn't my fault of who I act.
There are two sides of me that contrast.
One of me is calm and steady
Who I like to act.
The other is scattered and obnoxious.
This is the contrast.

The collected me is weak and sometimes numb.
It's a matter of chemicals, you see, that makes me dumb.
I know you don't like the person you have watched me become.
But understand, this is the contrast.

It isn't my intention to be like this, I swear.
These chemical sacks in my head sometimes scatter everywhere.
I promise I get better in time during this affair.
Please! For the love of all things, know this is the contrast.

I am a lot of two people I don't understand.
It might have been best if I were more bland.
Having me with you I know can get out of hand.
Sweetie, the doctors say I can't be helped, see this is the contrast!

It is and isn't my fault of who I act.
There are two sides of me that contrast.
One of me is calm and steady
Who I like to act.
The other is scattered and obnoxious.
*This is the contrast.

Any color is a combination of red green blue
When all thrice have disappeared
It has grown the black

@ Musfiq us shaleheen

There's  a world outside my little square window
that overlooks fields and woodlands and sunsets
and that world overlooks a bustling avenue with
shutters on windows and constant, humming traffic.
There's a world outside my little square window
that keeps wakes me with the same sun every morning
and the same old singing birds,
and that world rouses me with a different kind of music;
of people and chatter and busking and life.
There's a world outside my little square window,
a world I would never have been tired of exploring,
and that world is named Paris.