Growing up as a girl, I watched and learned,
The truths of boys and men often go unturned.
“Boys will be boys,” a phrase we all know,
Implying that girls must shoulder the load.
This notion suggests that girls mature fast,
Leading to women who pick up the cast—
An unspoken burden, a silent decree,
To bear the weight of their irresponsibility.
In a world steeped in misogyny’s grasp,
Women face judgment; their futures unclasped.
Absorbing the shame of the games that they play,
While men to walk away, free to go on their way.
Many men abandon homes they once called their own,
Now seen as free, yet their true selves unknown.
Disgrace drapes over women like a heavy yoke—
A weight of neglect that shatters their hope.
This yoke is forged from promises unkept,
From fathers who vanish while their children wept.
He escapes guilt with practiced ease,
Dodging duty like a ghost on the breeze,
Claiming children and a wife he never knew,
While society laughs at the pain he withdrew.
Leaving his children to carry his woes—
Their identities shaped by the hurt that he chose.
His children learn quickly to shoulder the shame;
They remember who was the burden of blame—
Like he who claimed love but was never there.
Those left to carry his name feel the strain,
Learning of unfairness that echoes their pain.
Abandoned women and children continue to grow—
A daunting endeavor men wish to overthrow.
Yet shadows may linger, and burdens remain;
They’ll carve out a future where hope will maintain.
For every struggle faced will lead to the dawn—
A testament to strength as they carry on.

Mama's day passes

uncomplicated, she just --


follows dad's schedule.

The board of their game

is the garden, with servants --


being the pieces.

Words are for the word-

people, she says, you are free --


to just do your job.

Am I elitist

if football is new to you --


and I explain it?

A trunk full of coins, countless
too many to use them in some way
We dispose of them properly

by putting them away for later
in a safe place, buried
under the ash in the middle of our town

We have enough, with the cattle
the pans and the women
who we capture across the border

The men, we trade
for jewelry and silver
that way we get rid of them

without having to ****
or to fear a rebellion
After all, life is hard enough already

It is an honour

for me to be there for you --


Until you sell me.

+ Inequality is good, a wise friend once divulged
+ It was a good thought that has a hint of truth
+ Why? I asked to uncover its mystery
+ Then he replied, and informed me gleefully

- Perfect liberation is too far to achieve for foolish men,
- In the present times I witness what I believe
- Blissful faces all around and it's probably not their last
- Ain’t we living now in an unequal world with future to trust?

+ I ask, but what about those people lamenting in the dark?
- I’m sorry to tell you bro, in a senseless quest I won’t embark
- Unfairness is when happy people are the cause of their misery
- Which we are a part of, this is ours and that is their destiny

- Of course I won’t impede your stance in this matter
- I believe you ain’t too foolish with your freedom and liberty
- It’s just that some people get what they want on a silver platter
- While some work their ***** of just to receive their miniscule pay

+ I understand my friend that harsh verity
- Harsh? Yeah to some people it is full of cruelty
- That’s why they want to overturn the norms, the world’s ethos
- I admire their courage but that is a matter I don’t intend to poke my nose

+ Speaking of unfairness, I have a thought of mine
+ Why do people complain of what is absent
+ When compared to others they have a lot present
+ Is it because man’s greed knows no confines?

+ And some people grumble about their problems that  
+ When compared to other’s crosses are just shallow vats
- If it is what you said then what use is contentment?
- And the second problem’s just like a game in my discernment

- Level by level we are differing with every other
- It is by which our environments determine our given attitude
- A level one complains to a level seven, a higher number
- And a level ten complains to a problem of greater magnitude

- By which sometimes the level ten see level one in annoyance
- For how lucky he is yet grumble of his misfortune
- See, its just a matter of perspective and vision
- Now why are you looking at me in askance?

+ Your logic has something wrong, I’m just pointing out, not debate
+ Why can’t a level ten, over a level 1 problem, grumble?
+ For its just a matter of perspective as you did articulate
+ And if it is the case then what use is the level of the people?

- Hahaha, you got me right my friend
- My view is flawed as I am
- Please do share thy thoughts so all this will end?
- For we have talked till the cows to home, come

+ My friend, I dare not belittle the view you conceive
+ For I think it has a hint of truth, even though with a flaw
+ You have a wisdom that exists only on a chosen few
+ So let me add a bit of my subjective perspective

+ The great may whine of a small barricade
+ The lesser may smile to the towering obstacles ahead
+ In every individual there are many factors of multitude
+ This is what you have missed, the peculiarity of humans

+ Not just discernment,
+ There is also temperament
+ We not only have perspective,
+ There is also attitude that we give

+ Many matter in life, I thus conclude my statement
- So that’s it! Thank you for the enlightenment
- Those factors really do affect our actions
- As long as we are humans, there are no exceptions

- To persist, to cower, to grumble, in traversing the rain
- To take it easy, to seek help or to accomplish it on our own
- Despite all this choices one truth will always remain
- That in life we most likely will reap what we have sown

step right in
where commodity and fiction
are deliberately blurred,

electrostatic dust collector,
after-shower body air-driers,
a spatially disconnected
from the world roll-on wife
complete with a dining table
that sinks into the floor;
don't tell her she's an android;
just don't.

she is captured
and ever ready,
she was a stenographer
but quite unsteady,
her mouth a spark of vowels
when her far off places
are aroused.

repeat this soothing motto — space, place, memory.

outside is scenographic sensation:
lightology. unbreathed air. porcelain skin.

she's the soft electric assurance
of a better life — the life which rests on device alone — a strong, sweet poison which infects the blood.

she is "the light of any home"...