The sharp jagged edge,
An exhausted little beak
Bedraggled feathers.

your words are razor blades
and I have seen you
shaving others
enough to know
I'd never let you be my barber

for if your mind,
the hand that guides them,
were as sharp,
you'd see that Occam's razor
is not a proper tool of art

The first of any month

is strange like

the peeling of a

hard boiled egg

where the sharp shards

if shell get all

stuck up

in cold fingernails

and the rubbery white

sphere of molded egg

jiggles and slips

plopping hard

on the white tiled floor

but it never breaks

just keeps it's shape

staying whole and

rolling off past the kitchen

and onto the warm

living room rug

where it stays

stuck and melting

becoming one with

the ruby red color

like a round white eye

glaring up at the world

unable to blink.

You're sharp edges
And I am whole
No more.


--Watercolour

A dry desert feeling creeps up my throat
I can almost feel the bright,
Red color lining the soft tissue.
Body aches starting at all twenty digits,
Eventually make their way throughout the body.
Sickness.

To some an excuse for rest,
"So why does sickness make me so upset?"
I try to scream,
But, alas, my voice is lost.

Ah, the voice,
What a silly instrument,
"Silly how," you may ask.
Well, it's weak.

Why can't my two ***** of vibrating tissue,
Stay healthy?
I need to use those stubborn chords,
My voice should not be diminished,
It should be strong.
This is a major problem,
That, to others, may seem minor.

Sing the notes,
Finish the chord,
Don't be flat,
That doesn't mean go sharp.
ENOUGH!
I can't even sing.

Unable to participate in a pleasurable passion,
All because of a
****
Weak
Immune System.

What then is the poem?

The poem is a sword too sharp and piercing
Too vast and Strong
The poem bridges the gap between known and unknown forces
Between seen and unseen faces
The poem is a sword too sharp that cuts
Cutting through hearts and minds
The poem bridges the distance reached and unreached

The poem has its wings and aim to fly on its own
Don't force it to fly,
Let it fly and soar when its time comes

Ovi Odiete©August 2016

Your beauty is just like a razor sharp to cut
Under the circumstances love acts as bandit
Even then love pierces me as a stray bullet
Let my sweetheart touch in trance the infinite

Very many lovers has been butchered by love
What you do is in vogue for centuries not now
Procedure remains same in where what and how
But Still I love you my just real innocent dove

You have taken over with your alluring beauty
Now I am totally in the servitude and not free
I will remain as such whatever circumstances be
Which never dies down love is evergreen tree

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

Seven weeks free,
One slip, a sharp knife,
Scars for life.