We work-to-rule, we're molls,
We are not unfeeling dolls,
Molls don't make extra cuppas for you,
We write our own rules to suit,
It's up to you to not be rude,
I say, "Pappa don't preach!" to you,
Molls write lots of rules,
They've got their own cooking school,
We cook when we want to,
The world is not run for you,
Yes, molls now have  work-to-rules.

Their love was like sparkle,
Enclosed in a strong glass jar,
With straps tied around it's head,
To have it saved and delicately spared.
Their eyes empowering the deepest flecks of care,
A gaze so tight, no force could interrept.
Their bodies together, were artistic,
Picturesque and parallel.
They breathed, to inhale the scent of each other's existence.
Their hands intertwining, agonizingly slow,
Feeling the lines and contours of their palms.
They didn't speak much,
A similarity in the flow of thoughts got their minds aquainted.
Their love was like paint.
Colorful,
Always ready to trace towards the dry canvas and fill the blankness.
They didn't love to show,
Their love was the only thing that resonated through their hearts.
Heartwarming, young and inseparable,
Their love was like the smell of books, whether old or new,
But always soothing.
Their love was what true love is drawn of.

               ~kc
                4.1.16

And I will wait for you like the leaves for their rain.

What is between your thighs? Empty stares hidden behind masks of confused faces, those who are brave enough to speak out.

Wavering hesitation in the questioning of names, locations, attractional appeal.

Do I even seem real?

Does my body "pass" the notion binaries with lingering questions of male? Female?

Of course, but who am I to decide the way I should live my life, or how I've "become" when I've shedded the skin of someone I once was.

I am nothing, if not a charade.

Undoubtedly all great players know                                                                      Their roles accurately ...                                                                                           No one goes beyond                                                                                                 One's role anytime ...                                                                                               All roles are planned greatly                                                                                    To suit themselves ...                                                                                                 Any violation of one's role ,then                                                                              It will inevitably lead to one's end ...                                                                       Crossing red lines is not allowed anytime ...

T'is unfair for those
Who have never felt morose or
Uncomposed
To blame or shame the lives
that have been.
For it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

For a few choose to leave this earth,
But most of us are dead from birth.
For either way it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

We should salute those who do it,
For they have gone through with it.
Us here waiting, waiting.
Waiting still, waiting to get ill.
For it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

If I were to make that choice,
Do not proclaim what I could have been,
Or that you never could have seen
The pain.
'Cause you could, and you did.
For it's anyone's choice,
Leave them be.
I wonder would you be the same
If it were me?

and there you sit
curled up in a chair
with knees beneath
your chin, sipping
your hot coffee
oblivious to the world

tuned out the world
tuned into the fantasy
of a perfect unknown
world-
reality becomes an
evaporated puddle
under the sun

let the passers-by wonder
what thoughts
are running through your head
you'll never know
you'll never trust

so there you sit
Alone.