soft serve
sun baked motel
peeling walls
of pastel painted hell.

tear stains from
a child’s eyes
They laugh and drink
she sleeps and cries

motel pool
the only solace
of the eternal the heat wave.

baking in the Florida sun
day after dull, dreary day.

she views her mother
as a friend
nothing more
no means to an end
no hope in store.

a party rages down the block
she watches from her balcony
thick night air broken by gunshots.

moms drunk & laughing
1:34 am on the clock

she’ll never see
a Christmas tree
with presents stashed beneath
the closest thing she has to Christmas
is the food truck that rolls around
every other week

the closest thing she has to friends
are stuck in the same broken homes
when her moms out partying
and they’re all gone
she finds herself alone

in a dimly lit motel room
TV blaring cartoons
purple and pink light from the sign
“Vacant—2 Beds, 2 Bed Rooms”

she’ll never have her dad
come and kiss her goodnight
she barely remembers him,
a blurry face
mom and him always in a fight

awake mid morning,
weary skies and rain today.

she just wants to go out and play
she dreams of being somewhere else

what it’s like living another life,
on another day

but not today.

sorry darling, not today.

A man with secrets known only to him and God,
he walks along the machair with pride.

He's unbothered by the ghosts of the waves and water
because his destiny lies on the shore's other side.

A brave and bold young man with dreams of a better life,
he's now begun to put this goal in motion.

One more drink at the Rosie Tavern before he goes
to say goodbye to the friends and men he knew so dear

Or maybe one more walk around the neighborhood
to say farewell to the family he held so near.

Come aboard the ship, ye brave and bold young Robert,
for there's a fortune to be made across that western ocean.

You'll be leaving behind memories of that coal burnt town,
but pay no mind to the darkness that'll be falling.

When songs of the old country bring tears to your eyes
think only of your strength; your legacy is calling.

Ye brave and bold Robert, you'll have all the fortunes you can see
Ye brave and bold Robert, you'll break the shackles of poverty.

a masked woman was talking in a murmur and an old man with a distasteful cigar was talking loudly.
the child in the street next to your house was crying and his elder brother was secretly smoking a pipe. her mother had gone to work at the aristocrat’s fancy mansion and her husband had passed away two terribly lonely long years ago. the man who greets you everyday with a cheerful smile yet weary eyes is back to work. polishing shoes for five cents.
the woman who looks at you suspiciously every time you try to peep into her window while walking by her house is buying flowers today.
with the infinite number of people doing infinite number of things, you are in your room, slow music and dead lighting, by the fire when it’s cold and close to the open window when it’s raining, you are counting.
one, two, three.
maybe four or maybe more.
last week the electricity connection got cut because you couldn’t pay the bills on time. yesterday you didn’t receive the newspaper because you can’t afford it anymore. and today’s morning was awful because you woke up with a racing heart as you saw death in your last night’s dream.
you can count eleven. eleven problems.
it is all too much for you to bear.
life is terrible. life is nasty.
you desperately want to give up.
now let us both, you and i, take a walk down the road.
let us look outside your four walls. that woman in the mask was not wearing it out of her own will.
that old man smoking that distasteful cigar lost both, his wife and son in one go. that child in the street next to your house wasn’t crying. he was pleading for food. pleading for life. and a child could only cry. his elder brother secretly smoking a pipe hasn’t learnt to smoke from his dead father or not even from his widowed mother. he’s been pushed into it. he has touched the flame and now, he has found solace in getting burned slowly by the same flame. their mother is a single parent, a worker in that fancy house, her dreams are crushed and responsibilities have levelled up. she yearns for her husband’s love.
that man who polishes your shoes for five cents, greets you with a smile every time you come to him because somewhere, he has falsely accepted that he belongs to a class below yours. there’s nothing more miser and pitiful than that.
that woman who looks at you suspiciously every time you pass by her house doesn’t do so out of hate. she’s scared and hesitant because her childhood abuse haunts her till date. her movements are still controlled by her past’s demon.
and now, let’s resume your counting.
but i think you’d stop doing it yourself.
not one, neither eleven results into anything.
if you’re now going to ask me why she had been buying flowers, let me tell you.
that woman whose past haunts her still, that man whose hands groped her when she was young, that man, her grandfather, died a few days ago. it’s a family ritual, you must know too. putting flowers on the graves of those you’ve lost. to remember them once they’re gone. to cherish the moments you’ve lived with them. she’s going to put flowers there.
but even you know, merely putting flowers on his grave is not going to remind her anything about him.
nothing about the times they’ve lived together because even you know, she’ll never forget. and never cherish.

We sell pain in my city.
In every street, you will find me.
Not someone like me, you will find me.
Pain under the eyes.
Pain under every roof.
There is always a veil between you and the person you meet in my city.  
It’s a veil of pain which we all hide here.
We wear it like a mask, it covers us like a sin, and we all look guilty.
Yes, we sell pain in my city.
There is anger in the veins of young boys of my city. There is dejection in the old.
There is slavery among the women.
There is dominance in our men.
We sell pain in my city and we are the only ones who buy it.
We sell it in every household. We sell it on the streets. We throw it into our water.
We breathe the air along with it.
We still take refuge in the arms of those who have never intended to safeguard us.
We know their intentions but we lack other options. We fall for those who wouldn’t look back once they have travelled too far.
We keep coming back to the same houses that we could never make homes.
We do not love anyone here.
We do not know what love is.
We trade the sorrows of our yesterdays, hoping we could have a plate of food for today. Nobody cries here.
We call it a waste of time.
We call it unmanly.
Our hearts are torn out, worn out, bitter and dark yet the women of my city won’t complain even after being prey to my city’s men every night.
We think we don’t have time for a that sort of conversation.
Mothers feed their children with tears and jokes here. Crying can make you forget you’re hungry so can a laugh.
We’re all hoping it goes on for long.
We sell pain in my city.
Would you please borrow a little?

You’r exploiting the weaker
The same way
As you are being exploited
By the mightier in anyway.

And this vicious circle goes on
Where the mightiest reigns on.

If you want to break
This vicious circle
Then start at least
At your own level.

Bring a smile on
The face of a sad one
Bring hues to the
Life of a deserted one.

Agree what can one flower
Do in this vast jungle,
But remember
Your blossoming will
Be a great revolution

Seeing you flowering
Other buds will be motivated,
By your blossoming
At least a corner will be scented.

What’s the use of
Sitting hands-crossed
Better to do little
Than sitting legs-crossed,

So try giving a mild ****
To this vicious circle.
If you are sincere onr
Then see the miracle.

Then realise what is
Your actual existence,
A single tiny lamp
Disperses darkness
With in its range,