"cras" poems
The name was Antappan.
On his wedding invitation
He printed the famous words
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi -
(Today it's me, tomorrow it will be you.)
Whoever asked
“Are you nuts, Antappaaa?”
Got a voiceless laugh in reply.
In native tongue
The laughter said
No quotes are quoted
Except through one’s own life.
Though not a charming name
It ‘s true that from that day
Antappan came to be called
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Wolfed down the pork and the beef.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi CrasTibi Antappan’s wedding
Gifted pretty sums of money in envelopes.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Said nasty comments about the bride.
Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Asked the sound system guy to play
You are lucky I am lucky loudly.
But before that a small incident at the church. As soon as he set his eyes on Antappan who was a grave digger the Chaplain forgot the wedding and without asking who died began to set the church bell tolling in that rhythm reserved for deaths. The senior Priest who heard it came running and opening the small prayer book for the dead began to sing the song the seeds sprout in the fields when it rains. Hearing that the girls in the choir sang the rest of the song when they hear the clarion call life sprouts in the dead and went on to the prose portion I call you lord from the abysses. Seeing that the boy who helps with the communion lighted the candle and incense stick for the dead. (Meanwhile the bride’s naughty song you who is not dead yet will you not **** me tonight also rang in Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s ears.) Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan who realized that the same flowers meant to be wreaths at some house of death were now adorning his ***** as a garland laughed his famous voiceless laugh.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
There are pins and needles in my feet made of guilt and cheap *****
bits of me are missing left in kisses and paint
everything else I put my heart into
too early and yanked it right back out
too quickly. I'd make promises like icicles pressed hard to my tongue
as if it wouldn't melt. The tissues in my dorm were used up
before forget-me-not's toppled to the floor,
the dirt strewn on my slippers that I just threw out
and left the mess there for weeks
stayed in bed above it all,
acupuncture can't cure this ache. Pumping my stomach can't empty
what is already empty. It's like a quarter on a string placed in a vending machine.
I get what I want and leave
with exactly what I came with
and more. But on rare occasions the coin is left on the floor.
I don't bother to pick it up because maybe it belongs there,
dancing among dust bunnies and clumps of hair.
There are needles underneath the first layer of skin on my fingertips
and they don't hurt. It's a feeling of uneasiness like a knot
in the chain of my necklace. I'll work it out later.
Pro-cras-tin-ation. You are the crab on an aluminum can, a moon lit with moths
a ninety year old man who burnt down his house from lighting too many candles.
Take it all in
for yourself.
It's not selfish, it's right. Because the sun burns the top of my head
even when my body is cold. Without you in my presence, my own hand I will hold
to cross the street.
Don't count your blessings until your hand is around their necks
so they have no way to escape without suffocation.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 2:30 AM UTC
Gunpowder anthem in flashpan thunder
tumbleweed talk of morrow
drifts along: cras enim moriemur;
interred in epigraphs cast in callow.
In turn, they marched to battle
swagger forth with merry prattle
and in turn, I heard in faux bravado:
live today like there's no tomorrow.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
There are some days that are better than others.
There are some days that hurt.
Some that heal.
Some that rip you apart from the inside out.
Some that feel like nothing could sour your feelings but it’s all lies.
Indifference is a blessing.
Ignorance is a curse.
Knowledge isn’t power, it just makes you feel worse.
Being too depressed, too suicidal, too manic to function is draining in the worst way.
Sometimes you just want to be happy but that isn’t always the case.
Sometimes you just want to cry your heart out but it’s just a waste.
Sometimes you want to live and survive; sometimes you want to die and end it all.
Living for something or living for nothing matters not.
It’s the functionality, the purpose you serve to yourself that does.
This too shall pass but alas, in its fleeting moments it is almost unbearable.
“Maybe,” you say, it’s but a whisper.
You know that you’ll be okay someday; just not today.
Let’s try again tomorrow.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 5:31 PM UTC
When day breaks,
And might should come,
But nothing,
Nothing but
Nothing.
When noon marches,
And the sheets feel heavy,
The air of the room
Fastening you
Down.
Then night settles in,
And your bones buzz,
And your muse says
"Tomorrow
And
Tomorrow
And..."
Wait
That's something else.
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 11:00 AM UTC
I walk the road I chose to follow.
Playing ***** screamed your shot is wacked? How to escape the truth you don't want to show your real self.
Like a shadow your self image lies like spray painting a broken angery mind that won't admit weight from wrong.
Insanity or guilty of all your mistakes you ran instead of writing the new storie you justchews to cras an burn.
No creative ways to redeam your self.
The house if truth will make the light as bright if you speak the truth or just keep lying.
Being fake may just smash all your teeth out being fake fit you is ditch
Now it's your grave.
Being true speaking your mind making the road turn to pathes to all crazy opportunist .
Be true your own willl write society's next move.
A posey is just a flower but
A rose is the truth about your life.
A rose is a reward for guiding the broken weak lost to the next game.
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
As i look in the mior at my self i see two sides of me one bright and beautiful and the other a mistory awiting to be discovered. My mind is where i spend most of my time thinking long thoughts. Pondering on what is going on. My friend is my own creativity a poet esacpinv my reality i live is hell i cant escape. My mind is full of things i cant explain. Ideas creative exiting but road lesss traveled. Bc beyong every bend is a mistake i make every time i open a new door to my own hell. Where god or satan has no control over. I am a walking hell setting wild fires with nothing left bright or beautiful. In my life there is no sun just a world of hell. If i let you see what i see you might lose your mind and go psychoticly crazy just to escape the pits of fire i walk threw. Wind chimes blow giving a chill to the air leaving me with chills of fear down my spine. My bipolar is like a roaler coster a speeding car that crashes into another cras sometimes. Most of the time i spend my time in my head thinking long thoughts pondering on the possibilitys of what is true and what is false. Week after week im stuck in my head just with all my thoughts that never seem to end it never tires me at all. My friend dont follow mw unless you wish to walk in hell like me
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC