Your hair, its softness makes my heart palpitate rapidly; Your face, its lineaments leave me in the wonder of their rarity; Your eyes, I can stare open-mouthed into them unweariedly; Your lips, I wish I can kiss them constantly; Your hands, I wish I can entwine them with mine eternally. Your mind, it captures me on every occasion thoroughly; Your soul, I can love it everlastingly; Your heart, it belongs only to me, solely; O, my inamorata! Feelings of you will never be dreary.
A puzzle I am You wont figure me out A puzzle I am You will not find all my pieces A puzzle I am You wont put me back together A puzzle I am You see the broken, tattered pieces A puzzle I am You did never solve
When they look at my body, they giggle between their teeth that are crooked but they call them curved. They perceive how curveless I look and tell me to perform yoga so that my curves can be defined, so that I can shape my convexes and concaves. I smile as bright as I can because probably those are my only visible curves. I tell them how every time I sit to write my pen curves on the pages that are thumbed on the corners so they seem curved too. I begin by writing the first letter of the English language and make slopes and valleys of this alphabet. I form serpentines and swirling cyclones of my words, I curve my 'S' to form into an infinity so that I can hold on to him for as long. I stretch my 'K' until the end of the earth and make it look like a single leg shoulder stand. And as I take all my alphabets, I turn them from staff position to the plough position. I make my words turn into Paschimotasna, and my noun tries to perform Kundali. My pronouns sit in vajrasana. My similies stress themselves and flex, while my metaphors curl into themselves and hide as Marichyasana. When I am done, my poems form themselves into Pindasana. However, I remain coverless, as straight and sharp as the pen I use. I remain 'Arjuna's' bow so he directs me into my own self, my own heritage and I end up killing my Bhishma, my self-respect. Hence while my words perform yogasana, I stand still in tadasana.
She grabs her by the neck And I can see it unfold She never stood a chance Her body slams to the ground She gasps upon impact Blood running from her mouth red as her hair
She reaches up Unclear if as an act of pleading or anger But a figure dressed dark as night rips her off the ground Only to slam her down again
This time she lets out an unearthly moan She spits blood onto the pavement It glistens in the sun A puddle of color against the blacktop
The figure grabs her again and drags her by her hair Her lips quivering She puts her arms below her And as she pushes to lift herself up another blow The dark figure kicks her in the side of the head She falls to the ground A sharp kick in the rips and she spits blood once again
She looks up pleading with her eyes Scrapes cover her face with streaks of red The tears are streaming down but she does not cry out Another blow to the ribs and she doubles down Using her hands over her head she attempts to protect herself
Finally relenting the dark figure stops the kicking She lay broken and quivering unable to face it It begins to scream And when she turns away it grabs her face to face the lingual horrors
When I see her face next it's only a glance But her eyes seem empty now Glazed over and lifeless The figure picks her up again
She makes no sound this time as she hits the ground For a moment it seems as though she will try to rise up The figure stands over her watching But she doesn't move