Drink Flask
See the drink flask there on the desk
A boring blue in colour
Slightly scratched and dinted
Well used by the owner
Made to look normal
Like it was just a flask
To carry coffee or juice
Drink it while you eat
Your dinner in work
Or sandwiches out hiking
The things of a normal world
All illusion soon to change
For this contains no drink
Not in the normal sense
It contains a virus from a lab
If the lid is removed
Other things done
And released free
We are all in trouble

A way of expression,
A method of destruction,
A powerful shield,
A mighty weapon,
A piece of art,
An escapism...

No matter what you call it,
Poetry is beautiful.
Keep at it, young poet-
I believe in you.

I'm no less than a lion-hearted soul
Who lives by high heroic skills,
Courageously fights off jackals,
And rescues victims with flawless charisma

But I ain't less than a dignified warrior
The most Blessed Teacher, an exemplary
Has taught me
About a weapon
Which has been the answer to infinite sorrows
dreamy desires and unthinkable perils
I've used it to cheer up saddened souls
And to relieve the unrelieved

It is my light
It is the weapon to divert from hapless ends
it is the key to unlock the gates of Mercy
It is otherwise known as Dua

A weapon that’s finely honed—
not more than a wire, a knife.
Nowhere on Earth I belonged,
until you invaded my life.

Around me, your arms wrap with comfort;
warmth spreading; hold’s steady, no effort.

Throughout, all’s familiar, safe.
My self (for what I always longed)—
no longer a weapon, a knife—
a man, fully, finally owned.

what's it like to have a gun to your head?
the feeling of the cold barrel pushed up against your hair,
knowing that inside that barrel is a future that rides the line you didn't always think you'd walk.
the wideness of that barrel, you can feel it's exact measurements on your skull.
the gaping hole in the center of the tube, that weightless piece against you,
but only physically weightless.
the heaviness of the weapon becomes
as heavy as your heart.

is it the part of the power in the trigger against your hand?
or is it the knowledge of the chemistry inside that gun,
that's pushing against your hand,
like your palm and finger with that gun have a newfound power?
is it a horrifying power?
is it peaceful?
is it aggressive?
loud?
is it as quick as your instincts?
the flip of the coin,
as quick as your mind changes?
is it as exhilarating as you wanted?
or as deadly as you thought?
is the weight of the bullets as much as the potential you have,
that you so easily dispose of?
so easily reject?

which is it, Isa?