I come to you again.
Always do.
And sure as eggs,
You’re always here,
Right where I left you.

I bring you the mundanities that weave me together;
I hope they’re beautiful in their ordinariness.

Pointillist.

You know that painting,
The one of the people in the park?
Like that, my mundanities.
Like if I step back one day,
My moments will be arranged into a perfect pattern of great and universal significance.

Having a daughter.
Tasting an orange.
Holding.
Being held.

Writing a little heart song when I should be asleep
The words of my whims dotting the landscape
While the dog smiles and snores at the foot of the bed.

Oh, look, I’ll say.

I see it now.

You started by being my friend,
Then you created a safe haven.
It started out with a few things like redesigning.
Little did I know that these were just the strings.

Soon you assembled a control bar,
That made me bend to your will.
I was too afraid to speak
As you might just release me.
But eventually my arms could not work,
My legs could not move.
My strings were broken and all worn out,

So, you found new strings on another puppet you pulled.
So, I sat in my in my corner and collected dust.
Thinking about how I got fooled.

As days went by, another person came.
They dusted me off and gave me a name.
With no strings and new clothes,
They called me their friend
And said I wouldn’t be played with again.

For the longest time
I have tried finding home
in a person

Someone you can hold
and feel at ease

But people aren't home
they are just human
and home is a thing you build
with the love you have

the sanctuary you create
with what you can give
rather than what you can take

and its true what they say
It takes a lifetime
to create that

then you welcome someone else
hoping they won't take the furniture apart
bring love
and hold it together with you
(like concrete)
and pray
that good days are ahead

- that is how to live/love

Dear World,
You owe me.
You are indebted to me for a year of joy
for each minute of anguish I have endured.

Dear World,
you owe me.
You owe me a day of respite
for every fleeting second of stress I endured

Dear World,
You owe me
you owe me yet another half a lifetime
for the cherished childhood
that was unjustly snatched from me.

Dear World,
You owe me
you owe me a new heart,
a worthy substitute
for the one
that has been mercilessly
turned to dust.

Dear World,
You owe me
you owe me a renewed mind,
one liberated from terrors,
freed from the traumas
I did not solicit,
free
from the haunting memories
I endeavored so fiercely to erase,
Free
from the faces of those who inflicted pain upon me,
free
from the anguished cries of my brother,
of my sister,
of my mother,
of my family,
and of myself.

Dear World
You owe me
You owe me
Most significantly
...................................................­....
Esteemed Human,
I,
do not owe you
a single thing.

They say that poetry doesn’t sell.

But then is poetry ever on sale?
Is poetry a commodity?
Is happiness on sale?
Is hope on sale? Is love on sale?

A poem could be a chunk of reality. Ramblings of a broken heart. A slice of humour. A beacon of light.

In the darkest of times, I have found poems that in a few words, beam rays of sunshine. That soothe unknown aches and pains. That hold my hand and pull me up. Bit by bit.

I may remain the proverbial ‘poor’ poet with large empty pockets. But poetry enriches me.

It casts a spell.  
So what if poetry doesn’t sell?

i fall back into the pit
of ghoulish flashbacks and nightmares,
and watch the same tragic scenes unfold repeatedly
of the child in me being dragged into the bleak blackness
to be fed upon, then subsequently discarded.
she tried to put up a fight,
but it was all in vain.
i'm such a fool for deceiving myself of their existence,
as they burned me while still conscious.

and this is the very moment
i metamorphose into a poet.
when my mind and heart have been spent,
from being a constant playground
for my fiends in so much glee to play at.

i metamorphose into a poet,
gather all fragments of myself
and become the poetry in my poems.

but you see, sometimes i am not a poet;
barbed wires wrap around my throat,
choking the words that want to break free from my chest.
and i just cannot bring  myself to lift the pen
and unravel myself through lines and verses.
...
around, indeed, these fiends of mine will sulk and lurk around.

@boonthemoonluv

All that care bout me so much poor the choice of words
where do they find the time
Is what i really wanna know.

Dont they have kids of
their own to **** up
Thou even a broken clock
Is right twice a day and so.

All that prays for my soul
How i would appreciate
i guess we will never know
Since im not in your hands.

As I raise my glass to toast
Worry about your own fates
Givin back just as borrowed
In our land we like to say.

To all that part in the rumor
Crossing the rightous man
Read the word over and over
I advice you to read it again.

Takes more than song to dance
In my homeland is wellknown
I know gods better than them
ChiRho i saw along another four.

In skies introducing themselves
In dawn of day we had become
Sun rose to glory god did accept
If knowing better, should know.

Once it was a voiceless bellow; thundering nothing
Then it seemed someone was whispering
Now, he knows its delirium in the ear
To which he is aghast and slumbers with fear

It's funny
You would think
Your sharp edges
would scrape my skin
and hurt me
poison me with a charm
that I can't resist
you worry about the blood
on my skin

I have held sharp edges
and cut myself enough times
to find my veins coiled in infinite directions
tormented my skin for long enough
that any scrape
(you may give)
heals instantly

If you ever could
cut me open
and reach my soul
you would find the scars
symbolic of my countless victories

I suffer from the love I gave myself
for long enough to become whole again
You look at me and you see elegance
someone who has not known the bitterness of the world

Yet you cannot see the hell
tamed in my basement
it now exists like a fire that burns large enough to keep me warm

I understand,
it is difficult to comprehend
the seismograms of the earthquakes
that came before you
the breaking apart of a home that you didn't see
how I held together this body
like porcelain waiting to reach the floor
fought the wind and the chaos
-now unbreakable-
I do not let it on
I exist hushed like a calm lake
I stand peacefully
As the rage rests under the surface
and you awaken it
-testing the waters you say-
but you get swallowed as soon as the waves approach

There is so much that exists in a human
your barbed self does not know the courage it takes
to be damaged for so long
that one day you decide to become your cure
You run towards an unknown
for long enough and you find yourself
drowning, burning, breaking
and then you glue it together
like you are an artistic remedy

I am not foolish
I am the catastrophe that was
the survivor of the storm
the courageous soldier that lives on
it's bewitching you
Yet you are afraid
of hurting me?
(such naivety)

You don't understand
(the emptiness within you)
You wonder, how strange it is
for me to be so untroubled
with your knives
still in my skin
I exist, in your mind
(with my fire and my grace)
like a gift from the gods
and your failure to worship it
is a fragility
that breaks porcelains
fault lines that bring about earthquakes
and you stand till the wreck of you
becomes large enough
to awaken the desire to heal

I cannot help you
so i hope
someday when you have fought the hell
and as the battle comes to rest
you will understand
the magic of it all