I was born already cracked,
a chalice of want spilling over.
Lust learned my name before I could speak it,
sin wore my face like a second skin.
I stood anyway, a statue made of nerve and lie, asking the air if consequence ever forgets.

Each breath is a dare to something holy,
each morning, another betrayal of night.
Is this karma, or just a looped confession?
Life keeps happening even when I stop meaning it.

Still alive, still gnawing at the
bone of tomorrow.
Would it matter if I died in this light?
The room would blink, but only once.
No regret, yet I’d crawl for
a second chance if
God left the door even slightly ajar.

Je t’enterre!
Je t’enterre!
Je t’enterre!

You were a cruel mirage,
a velvet chain I mistook for freedom.
I unshackle myself, only to realize
the cage was always me.

Oh, to give a dam—much like a lake, its waters
held back, silence breaking my spine. All of my
worries are so high; walled off like Kariba—
****; the young grow old faster than you
can say the word— telling jokes, but even
a straight path smiles with crooked teeth.

Hope laughs at itself, when it forgets to believe.
And what’s one more injury in a whole lifetime,
lest you hang yourself with the very lifeline
you cling to.

0808 4116 is the helpline; but on an island
of despairs, what becomes of a landline—
when your thoughts are rigged like landmines,
waiting for the wrong step to set them off.

Watch your step. Hope lives in an arena, fighting
to be heard through the noise. And anything worth
holding onto is something worth bleeding for—
But it will demand you take your licks, like a kitten
burning through lives, losing a few before it learns
what survival really is.

So don’t litter your worth on the ground.
Guard it. Nurture it. As a mother cat does
her litter— fragile, trembling, but alive.

The heart weeps softly, showing its bruised hue.
Shadows of despair whisper, I'm following you.
Icy winds and grey clouds all around.
Not the faintest beam of light is found.

Does your night teem with sparkling stars?
Or behind the fantasies, veils deep scars?
Does your heart dwell in a city of dreams?
Or breaks into bloodcurdling screams?

To a great extent, your lips laugh.
But your heart merely does its half.
It longs for joy in a world of strife.
How peculiar is the riddle of life!

When shadows speak and the heart bleeds,
A hand of solace is all what it needs.
So, to let them pay heed to a heart's cry,
This hand will write till the ink runs dry.

A gaze from out the darkness,
a shadow person of the Imaginary:
This is here; this is now.

I don't like people, they scare me. . .
too much. They're shadow people
of the Imaginary, given freewill.

I could see the shadows by myself,
And they can't see me; but these people
Their eyes are imbued with scrutiny,

I know I can't see it, but I know it's there
By their seeing me. Are you blind?

And maybe the world doesn't care about me,
But this doesn't make me feel free.

It means the only one caring, is me.
And I'm the nothing at the heart of everything.

And if I'm the only one in the universe
Who does - that is a cosmic horror,

Because the universe is my cradle,
And I'm it.

Slipping from a dream into a dream
and waking up to a dream,
The painter and I shrugged off
our blanket of cherry blossoms.

The tree was asleep; its song sung
The sun peered from among the clouds
careful not to disturb that pink slumber.
And we walked down the hill.

We ambled sans destination or purpose
going where whim or wonder steered our feet
We ate in the shade of broken monoliths
and rested in the halls of ruined castles

Fellow travellers we met a few
each walking in their own reverie.
Some shared a song, some bread
some offered their soul, some a bed

We came in time to the edge of the plain;
Below us was a wide valley
A road ran along its centre
stretching from one end to the other

And though we saw people
on the plain and in the valley,
not a soul ventured onto the road,
walking instead on the bare earth

"The Road of fates," said the painter,
"A road for the impatient..or the despondent."
We sat at the edge and watched;
We were not the only ones.

Presently, there came along a man
holding a pen and a book.
With an agonised look in his eyes
he stood in the valley, pondering.

With a sigh he stepped onto the road.
He started writing in his book,
his hand flitted from page to page.
Feverishly he wrote as he walked

A slab of the road came loose
and landed on the man's back
weighing him down like an ideal.
And the man walked bowed

Dogs came running up the road
and without knowing how
we knew what they were,
what they embodied.

As Responsibility clung to a calf,
Loneliness and Sickness took turns
and bit and clawed the man's legs
causing him to stumble and weep

He picked up a stick of Faith
and tried to fend off the dogs,
but soon the stick was lost
and the man started running

The dogs chased and harried
and took away chunks from the man.
Not scraps of the flesh,
but pieces of his soul.

Still the man wrote in his book;
bowed and in pain,
losing strength and vigor,
still he wrote.

Rain started to fall on the road
and the dogs scampered away.
The man sighed and sat down
and started writing again.

The clouds poured out their balm
and his pains melted away.
The man started walking again.
But it was a short respite.

A scream filled the valley
and we stopped our ears.
But the man fell down
as Loss struck his heart.

The sound of barking far away
as the dogs gathered again.
The man sat up and wept
and picked up his pen and book

Buffeted by the echoes of loss,
dreading the jaws of woe,
weighed down by his ideals,
the writer sat and wrote

The mongrels came into sight.
The man started walking again.
A snake slithered between his feet
and sank its fangs into his being

The man stumbled, stopped
and writhed as in torment
as if the poison of Regret
burned his life blood

Onto the road he fell once more,
his pen flying away from his hand.
The dogs kept drawing near.
Giving in to despair, the man cried

He lifted up his head and yelled.
And brought his face down hard.
He kept smashing his head
until he rended it open

And as his blood flowed across,
the book was soaked red.
Silver figures rose from the red -
the man's fictions, his dreams.

All along the stream of blood
stories from his travails came to life;
And looking at his creations
the writer smiled and died.

The carcass would be dragged away
The blood would be washed away
But the shimmering silver stories
Would remain floating on the Road.

The morning
Sinks its bite
Into a lifeless stuffed toy,
Yanking it across the room
For its owner to throw
Me again.

Right here: surface level regrets— a smile rehearsed hides too many
oceans underneath. To lose the mark of a purpose, drowning in
the weight of it, falling asleep too far from tomorrow, and begging
the clock for hours to borrow.

I was almost crushed, a branch torn from its root— still green,
still alive, but already withering in the dirt. Among circles of people,
most days stack like square bricks; I fly too low, chasing reflections,
the heron staring back from water’s despair.

Fresh lipstick still stings— beauty sharpened into a lethal injection.
Kindness can be your only mistake, forcing a straight smile onto a
crooked day. Faith rubs raw against friction; love can be a salvation,
but fatal is it's attraction.

But to stay still, makes a silhouette pinned to the wall, lonely but
lovely in outline— as the shadows above become surface level
regrets. But tomorrow, I’ll trace the same lines again, hoping each
cycle might end better than the last.

Laugh, Pagliaccio.

For sorrow now knocks,
and racks upon you
its thousand woes

Laugh, Pagliaccio.

As the mourning dew,
adorns your withered rose

Laugh, Pagliaccio.

For the thorny nest,
now covets.
That blackened heart

Laugh, Pagliaccio.

As from this bed,
you’ll never come to wrest;
Ever-nested in ****** vines.
You’ll writhe, each ****** day.
So forgo any and all hopes of rest
And—

Laugh, Pagliaccio.

Whilst the furrows deepen,
and the time for tears, comes down weepin’,
to dole over joys no more leapin’,
joys that strain, under sadness, now seepin’,  
As unsown fruits ripen;
and become the unworthy’s reapin’

Truly,
heartbreak’s come
and taken all—
worth keepin’

Laugh, Pagliaccio.

Not for the people’s pay,
no—
for the fool that you are,
swayed as you were,
like child’s play.

Laugh, Pagliaccio.

The people restless;
clamour, bicker and fight.
In wait for their beloved Pagliaccio;
the clown with wit and humour rife.
So adorn your mug with that ghastly white,
and let them gaze.
Upon the clown of wit and humour rife;
not a man suffering under muted plight,
nor one vengeful;
of horrors, in spite.

For you, by fate have been chosen,
to carry,
this chip and blight.
Now, heavy heart, make light
and brave these jagged waters,
that ill-humour has tasked you smite

Go now!
Caper in. To the jester’s tent.
But beware;
be not seen under the searing light.

Peace
On the operating table.
I wasn’t very faithful,
But ever since Death’s call—
I fear. for my life.
   God save us all.

Adieu, adieu, adieu.
A tremor hits the old room,
Antiques and glasses crash,
Dust folds and my heart.
   It's all gone.