I am the love killer,
I am murdering the music we thought so special,
that blazed between us, over and over.
I am murdering me, where I kneeled at your kiss.
I am pushing knives through the hands
that created two into one.
Our hands do not bleed at this,
they lie still in their dishonor.
I am taking the boats of our beds
and swamping them, letting them cough on the sea
and choke on it and go down into nothing.
I am stuffing your mouth with your
promises and watching
you ***** them out upon my face.
The Camp we directed?
I have gassed the campers.

Now I am alone with the dead,
flying off bridges,
hurling myself like a beer can into the wastebasket.
I am flying like a single red rose,
leaving a jet stream
of solitude
and yet I feel nothing,
though I fly and hurl,
my insides are empty
and my face is as blank as a wall.

Shall I call the funeral director?
He could put our two bodies into one pink casket,
those bodies from before,
and someone might send flowers,
and someone might come to mourn
and it would be in the obits,
and people would know that something died,
is no more, speaks no more, won't even
drive a car again and all of that.

When a life is over,
the one you were living for,
where do you go?

I'll work nights.
I'll dance in the city.
I'll wear red for a burning.
I'll look at the Charles very carefully,
weraing its long legs of neon.
And the cars will go by.
The cars will go by.
And there'll be no scream
from the lady in the red dress
dancing on her own Ellis Island,
who turns in circles,
dancing alone
as the cars go by.

Words spill like an avalanche down a mountain,

Swamping out the message in a flurry of exposition.

The plateau crumbles, dropping great sheets

Of icy statements down like old guillotine blades,

To shatter against the cold rock in tears,

Too frozen, too brittle to pierce.


Such noise, such ineffectual destruction,

Laying snow on snow on piles of snow;

But the mountain stays still beneath the weight,

Its stony face unmoved for yet another day,

Knowing it will soon abate.

As the tide drifts to a halt,

The mountain slowly, contemptuously,

Turns away.

Every morning I wake up to puddles at my feet,
Storm clouds swamping me and making it impossible to breathe.

The downpour only grows more as the days progress,
A dying glow fading distant in my empty chest.

It's hard to find the storm's eye when it seems to have died,
The tar and ashes from a bonfire burn lowly outside.

But me and my life, I suppose we are just fine...
The rising tide drowning us in it's icy cold brine.

Perhaps one day, it will all come to an abrupt end.
Until that day, I'll drown myself with an ocean of gin.

tidal waves

starting from the bottom,
    a life time
                     ago, inside backstabbers feeling the aftermath.
raising in anger

                  the sky above, gone so long.
lifted to

a journey of endless time, skies as dark as,
a blackened out knight.

a thief, not realising the fight,
                                                  that you daily gave flight.

academia loses me, swamping my left side,
my brain is crawling.

a right sided force to be reckoned with,
a release from the monotony of one
                                                           two
                                                             ­    three, safety in numbers.

war of the world ensues, it's a game of thrones.

red versus blue, black versus white,
knowing I always saw,
the creativity in,
                            me.

© Sia Jane

Currents move the water.
Squirming, snaking and slithering
Through the depths till they reach the surface,
And then the gushes of air come,
Plucking the currents from peace
To force them forwards,

Another current swipes,
And another crashes,
Another burns with power,
And another dives through the centre,
The wind moulds the currents,
Sculpting the water to shape,
Until finally a ripple forms,

The gales flood over the crinkles,
They drag and try pierce the perfect folds,
Making the swan into an ugly duckling,
The duckling rises to its feet,
Excessive flesh flying away
Into the moist air,

The wings flap,
It stretches its legs and neck,
More impurities flicker off,
Brown feathers fade,
The beak sharpens,

Currents, gusts and ripples
All bundle into one,
The swan extends its wings fully,
And the water crashes.
Remains of the stunning creature tumble behind,
White foam and twizzling tides are left,

They reach the shore,
Swamping the sand in energy,
Clawing the helpless pebbles off the beach,
And retreating back to the ocean
Where more swans are formed
Endlessly

In this moment all I can possibly wonder is the way I will remember you,
Will I remember the sweat on your bottom lip, like thumb tacks puncturing a map,
Puncturing the places I would like to visit;

Or will I remember the way your eyes look in sunlight,
Iridescent and blue like the sea the day after a storm.
Except you are not a reflection of something else.
You have not shriveled up and died,
Or reserected yourself from your most sinuous nightmare.

I always wanted to take you apart ; leave your fragments to sun dry.

That is the silver barrier that separates us,
I am wasted potential, a sick twisted mind, I will spit in your mouth and smile.
I have been thrown to the vultures,
And although I clawed my way out,
Something inside of me has died.
A candle has burned out;
And then there’s you.
And you light up the sky with sparks,
And set my whole world ablaze.

We are burning,
Burning down the cities and engulfing the towns,
Swamping the planet with embers.
We are a flood of inferno,
A glittering holocaust.

I have loved before, and that was much softer,
It’s different when you don’t know how bad it hurts. I could write a book about all the different places in my body I felt heartbreak.

I wonder if I will always carry this flame with me. I could keep my heart in my pocket, leave my memories in the photo frames and card board boxes.

Oh dear,
If only it was that easy.

Polished nails and faint fingertips
Soothing touch, but quaint red lips
Almond-shaped eyes, hazel iris gleam
Fair skin worthy of the loveliest dream

These words on paper
The very first
Starting the rhyme and verse
With more moments
And stories
All so poetic and stoic
Bleeding ink to fresh paper
Bleeding hearts to woeful ears
Tracing the lines
Of my formative years

Ashy mist skies nestled over
Bleak sleeping mountains
Ghost wood trees likes hands
Reaching from the earth

A girl named Olivia
Sitting in my grade school class
Dark hair woven
Threads of black silk

I never knew her as she grew up
Just an illusory form of a forgotten past
Imagining her as she could be now
I could walk up to her
And say:
      
       “Hello Olivia, It’s been a while
        You changed since being a child
        Your beauty’s been enhanced
        Maybe you’ll give the chance
        To talk and reminisce
        I just can’t resist
        Everything I see and hear
        Has never been so clear
        You make me feel content
        Whole, serene and free
        I just wish this wasn’t a dream.”

All things I wish I could say
To a person I could never forget
Where you simply forgot me
Because I moved away
And you lived your life

Stupid poems of love
Stupid songs of strife
I don’t want these things in here
On here
On these new pages
These quips don’t represent me
The way I want to be recognized
These aren’t the things I want to
Talk about.

Let these crisp pages tell of mutant women
And ******-****** fiends frolicking fiercely
Distorted, cathartic characters collapsing
Rippling, regal rodents ******
And cesspools shaping  
Bubbling, contorting, boiling, simmering
Cow intestines infused with cake batter
Incestuous fairies hopping and dancing to screaming metal
Crunching, chugging riffs and thunder-booming bass lines
Frightening, fulsome, fearsome, ******-up fire starters
Worshiping, boars and their tusks and piling carcasses
Blasting kick-drums and rolls of stomping toms
Orchestra of darkness, Symphony of Hell
Masquerade of puppets and angel witch choirs
Demon women and devil men, swamping
Over bodies and pulling me into the pits
Where the pleasure my body and tear my flesh
Eradicating goodness and lights
With blood, pain, salivating mouths over hardened *****
******* **** and trusting in and out like wild men
In a lake of burning coals  
And sins

I observe these happening(s) in this modern day
So I must write them and you shall read
And in the process
You will be
Shocked, surprised, disgusted, appalled and desired
Your body reacting to these words and phases

    Ever wonder what my voice sounds like?

I do too, at least in your mind

This is my voice.
This is not your own.

Bourgeoisie dinner parties fit for cannibals
White weddings stained with septic blood
Children racing across the burning fields
Chasing the reaper and his friends
rapid heart beats
cold sweating hands
stomach pains churning and squealing
forcible labor to invisible babies
pulling back lips and gums
and retracting teeth
sinking into warm necks
******* and stretching
moans
and beauty through depravity
animistic, egregious
brutal love and subtle kisses
bleeding hearts
and
bleeding pens


This isn’t bad.

I like this

Would Olivia find this mind attractive?
Maybe
Maybe not
It doesn’t matter
These scribbles and dabbles
On these ****** pages
Are the beginnings to something more
All sprouted from the memory
Of a girl.

There was a child once
full of  barely hidden laughter and mischief
emotions endlessly poured out and back in
like a tide tasting a new shore for the first time
Where is that child i wonder

there was a traveler once
thirsting for the experience and life seen all around
headfirst diving into the world accepting
fearing nothing and witnessed with wide eyes
where is that traveler i wonder

there was a husband once
overflowing with found shining love
joy swamping easily the baseless fear of loss
proven in horrible perfection in a moment
where is that husband i wonder

there was a father once
completely enamored of a tiny squalling form
filled with a something that could not be defined
until it was gone drained and replaced with horror
where is that father i wonder

there was a lover once
coupled a shy temerity with a respectful tenderness
opening to possible love as a flower to sun
bruised and rejected on occasion though ever hopeful
where is that lover i wonder

there was a soldier once
who stood up with passion for those who could not
heart on the sleeve and thunder on the brow
viewing the world as a problem to be fixed
where is that soldier i wonder

there was a fighter once
who smiled sadly as he fought and killed in the name of money
laughing at the jokes his companions made in desperate tones
as they hid the slowly acidic thoughtful fear of being the bad guys
where is that fighter i wonder

there was a man once
betrayed and broken by this world and his choices
looking back across the memories that swirl and sift
ashes and dust that are all the remains of a once laughing child
and i don't need wonder where that man is.

Before I entered my new job and got new friends and a new boss
I was a sailor
Man
Sea waters runs through my veins
With kisses, the cool winds have smothered my face
These blue waves used to greet me goodmorning everyday
And ****
My body is so hot
Because under the sun
My skin is just baked

So now
I'm just happy to see
My good old friend again
To unfurl the sails
To hear the floorboards squeak under my feet
To drink the moon glow cascading on us thick like milk

However
One key characteristic of the sea is its unpredictability
Sheer mystery
And in my lifetime as a sailor
It still leaves me
Grappling with her curious cases of conundrums

Somewhere along the middle
When we thought that we will just sail straight
No
We just got spat and slapped in the face
By cruel waves and cold wind
From a squall.
Like a storm but more severe and sudden
Too fast this hits us with no warning

The winds stirred the waters
Infusing it with rage
We're being tossed around, manhandled
By the wall of water towering,
Crashing on the boat and swamping everything
Desperately trying to hold on to something
Because I can't
stand straight
But how do I do so when
I can't even get a hold of myself and think straight

As the waters flood the deck
Questions flood my mind
What
What is happening and
How
How do we get out of it
How do we keep this ship from getting wrecked?
When dawn breaks tomorrow will there still be
A beat and a breath inside our chests or
Will the sun just find us on the shoreline dead?

Over the roar of the storm
I'm asking why
Why now?
Why us?
Why
me?
When I
Have done nothing wrong
to deserve this harsh punishment
This cruel treatment
My hands are clean
I'm innocent
Faithful, in fact
To You Jesus

Jesus
What are you doing?
Why are you sleeping
so soundly
On a cushion at the back of the ship?
How can you ignore this raging storm
The impending wreck which will seal
Our certain deaths?
Don't you care?
Can't you see?
How can you bear to sleep through our agony?
Have you forsaken us
And allowed us wallow in despair and tragedy?
Wake up! Jesus please
Where are you
in this desperate time of need?

Finally he awakens
And to all my questions he responds with one as well
He asks me
Where
Where is your faith?

I fell
Silent
And so does the squall
Mighty you arise and speak with authority
You command the wind and the waves to cease
And they do
They were viciously violent
But now
They've calmed down
Completely
The sea is conquered by
Serenity

Wait
One more question
Who is this man?
Who are you Jesus
That though the tides and torrents come
You can still sleep soundly like a baby
Safely
Resting in security with the fact
That no storm can ever bring you down to defeat
You are
Peace
so powerful
You command all noise to
Still
Ness
You see joy and beauty amidst the mess
When chaos hears your voice
It ceases
So please
Speak on

Maybe
We'll have infinite questions but
Zero or even negative answers
Though the world falls apart
falter we won't
A paradox
Transcending all understanding
This powerful peace
Strong serenity
And that is because
Hope is here
And Hope cares for me
For us
Now i know
That as long as He is with me
the storm is a sanctuary

Your absence
laps
at my shore
like a
f o r g e t f u l tide;
some days
it stays
                                   out,
letting me
breathe,
letting me
be-
other days,
it makes up for this,
swamping me
in a
tsunami,
and all I
can do
is
keep my
eyes
trained on land.

You are the moon.
Please return soon.

I joust myself into jovial life
Jocose tatterdemalion and stygian salaciousness
Umbrage abrogating merit like swamping locusts
The mammoth chip on shouldered kids starving for life
I'm waiting on purgatory, and I'll wait for you with knives out
Cemetry of the artist stubbed beards and pubescence in the Phoenician Lands
He said she should have left the house
Tomahawks can still cut the vineyard, make my loquacity into beer-tap poetry
Flowery, murmur, kumbaya, kalimba de la soul and all thoughts aside
You're hoping music brings the song to my speechless heart
Your dance sounds light the motionless night, only the tapping of starry footsteps
Hob-nobs, more and more, knobs of heaven's doors open to every hippie with angel hair
Crossing the wires of substrates
Sonatas and partitas can be lugubrious, yet, elegantly examined
Nocturnes, from the centuries

Of ten old centurions
Came down to the Colosseum
Gladiator enthralled the chariots of fire
I was with ten ants, burning under the microscope
Tenants of this Roman Empire

Fighting for your rights
Fighting for the people who cannot fight
For the weak, requires peace and understanding
Shiny, homeless people lost the soul to the drugs and marijuana smoke under streetlamps stretching to infinity
This earth is an orchard of flowers
Slightly plump in the middle, it's mother nature
Not zaftig, it has latitudes and longitudes
Lavish life, garish fiefdom, stretches across the bent imagination of perverse minds
Looking for a kiosk in the peak of red skies that do not know blood and aggravation
New Year's Day, the cyka cry Mother Russia and SOS
Shooting flares into the sky
To reach so low, and to reach so high
Shouting slogans, written by the poets
Passion, prejudice, sensibility, comradery these are metiers of poets
Secrets strewed across the bloodless sky
Wishful thinking tantamount to head in the clouds
The clouds have different shapes and size, the fire of the greater existence lends us words in thoughts

In a phalanx of four: Peter, Lisa, Dave, and I, descended a waterfall of marble stairs - pilgrims to another time - as if we’d punched through a wormhole.

It’s a five-star bash at the palace of Versailles - a grand ball - and the air itself seemed to vibrate with a feverish energy. As we bottomed the stairs, something whisked by in the air - was it the ghost of beheaded Louis the 16th?

Naah, it was a multicolored, donkey-headed, Cirque du Soleil creature. They swung everywhere, like gravity defying bugs on silken tethers, ring-swings and thin, web ropes. They flew, tumbled, unicycled, breathed fire and were shot out of cannons like fodder - all against a prismatic sunset backdrop.

A surprisingly chill Parisian wind clawed at our costumes of silk and broadcloth finery. The sun, a bright pink and yellow crack, low on the horizon, cast long, dramatic shadows on the flourish of chaos, as people arrived.

As night asserted itself, light became a living entity, blooming and dissolving in a mesmerizing multicolor-laser ballet that bathed the milling, costumed throng in fluorescent kaleidoscopes of kool-aid colors.

The day before, we had final costume fittings, earlier on the day, we had our hair and makeup done by artists who specialized in 17th/18th century styles (like we’d have known the difference).

From the salon, we were valeted, from Paris, directly to a ‘theme studio,’ setup in the Grand Trianon (the small, side palace where Napoleon lived in the summer) where, for €250 each, we got 10 glam shots on an elaborate, fantasy set.

Then we were escorted to the ‘Extravagant’ (a VIP area next to the stage) - passing through the envious glares of queued, lesser mortals.
‘Ahh, Privilege’, I thought, smiling brightly and waving royally - ‘just like Marie Antoinette used to do it.’ (before being angrily beheaded).

In the heart of the masquerade, tables fairly groaned under a buffet to shame the Roman emperors. There were open bars where rivers of martinis, champagnes and chocolates, the very essences of the celebration, flowed freely.

Elaborately constructed, elevated stages of polished aluminum pulsed music and life. LED light-panels painted fleeting hieroglyphs on the crowd, teasing the edges of perception and bands performed their own sonic wave-magic, swamping the crowd along in currents of booming, euphoric, Frenchcore club-music.

Dance, dance, dance, rest. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more delightfully fragrant crush of humanity.
Our gilded, white clothed table was an island where we could retreat for cooling refreshment. I have two important words for you 'watermelon martinis’ - you’ll thank me later.

Versailles decadent past was alive that night. It was a young crowd, in general, so, of course, G was there, with Molly, K and Ice - but we were, like, ‘no thank you very much’. In several areas, costumes became fairytale slithers, as partiers became increasingly uninhibited.

After about four hours we caught the ‘exclusive’ light show (Hollywood bathed in unclothed decadence) before moving, weary limbed as zombies, toward the whispered promise of breakfast.

About 45 limousine-minutes later, waiting tourists and a crowd of locals outside a posh Paris restaurant hushed as we passed, colorfully costumed, like ghosts of an indulgent, hedonistic past - to our reserved table.
“Quatre, café et croque monsieur, s'il te plaît,” I told the waiter (four coffees & breakfast sandwiches, please).

I’ll admit to being a bit jaded. I’ve been to more than several ‘Parisian Haute-Couture Extravaganzas” but Lisa seemed genuinely impressed and I think the boys (Peter and David) had fun too. I was lavished with kudos as if I’d thrown the thing.

The atmosphere had been pure romance - in an upscale, Disney, mass produced sense and while it was, perhaps - like last summer's trip to the Ascot races - something not to be missed, it was also a one-time fling - something to look back on - when we’re 40 or whatever.

Earthquake erupts from the core,
Lava bubbles as beautiful earth reaches destruction,
For once not the impact of mans misuse,
A pressure cooker,
As heat increases,

Tiny delicate butterfly ***** her wings in the breeze,
Antennae taste the air,
Sensing the impending tsunami,
Swamping the other face of her force,
Once blessed world,

Buildings destroyed by vehement wars,
In terror as inhabitants,
Fly in abject misery,
News reports feed sorrow,
From all corners of the globe,
A globe with corners,
Well I never,
Well I can only hope I never anyway!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

That's how it is lately.
Not getting any time off.
Grabbing each elusive line.
Searching out the exact word.
Images swamping my head,
so many and so fast that
soon I'll need an image sifter.
Barely time to eat.
Sleep at a premium.
Exercise neglected.
Shack becoming a sty.
Cat neglected and angry.
Never get outside anymore.
I love it, but
can I outsource any of this?
  ~mce

Withered life brought low,
with browning stalks and stems.
Twilight of a summer’s day,
in the coming of the Fall.

Swirling clouds of darkest grey,
complimented with the oval drop.
Burst banks and flooded plains,
a river swamping all that lies before.
 
A naked tree bereft of soul,
creaking cracked in this foul wind.
Strangled without mercy,
and wrenched away from Spring.
 
Wrapped around the purest heart,
of finest elm and oldest oak.
A vicious corrupt entanglement,
and in certainty will life die.

Yet all pain and sorrow,
must surely wax and wane.
As the turning of the tide
brings hope to one and all.
 
All dead must fall and heed no words,
of careless thought and wicked mind.
For even as the sun does set,
the stars shine out their brightest yet.

despite it all
there's still my body
with animalistic intent
looking at your lips eyes and hands

those mud pool eyes
swamping and sinking
driving me all kinds of crazy
hands icier than winters’ most desolate day
shock me with their stroke

render me no more
an object of your affection
attention bearing
overwhelming
little paper doll
fold and tear
new dimensions
in which I shall exist

swear to me
i am no longer needed
truth be told i’ll never believe you
your mouth mimes one thing
but your eyes
they flash
telling me otherwise

do you have any idea
the damage that your hands once did
not hurtful in the sense
but the shivers they subjected to
my spine
were cruel in their own right

do not lure me in with barely there surrender
hollow promises flood my empty heart
each crevice awash once more
with the hope
that this time you won’t leave me
swallowing for air

you are missing from me
not i, missing you

River floods make planted buds  
Unclean, sweating blood for the seeds
Hidden in unfound prophets.
The pollen prophecies hinder
The far lost lovers, star-crossed
With their eyes to the skies and
Hands reaching deep in the seas above.
We wait, silent, and wonder. Swamping
Our stomata vision with couplets
Formed from stigmas of all the years.
Rhyming, but avoiding the answers
We crave. From cradle to grave is not
Enough. Searching signs and science
Beyond our learning, lessons hard learnt
From love itself compromise the beauty
And mistakes found on the surface of
An eclipse – blinding men and hanging
Martyrs from the stark tip of a half moon.
Sharp, revealed, they sacrifice what the church
Could not. Would not. Poison or paradise?
We will never be sure but it still fuels
The passion and bakes the bread we need
To eat and live. The sour lips of life tasted
Sweet before, but the flowers have died
Now and left their ****** marks on
The garden path. When we were young
The stigmata did not stain so much.
Clandestine and concealed to the world,
Invisible - striving for the word to be known,
But strife was not The Way. Doth with their
Own death they curse those who engendered
Them, like Faustus, who flew but twas
All in feign, for he fell in vain - and did not live
To taste the wine. Yet fallen are we all
For the sake of those two lovers –
Biting deep into the rigid skin of solid
Poison. The sickly sweet juice running
Down the side of her cursed lip
As the serpent swept their souls away.
A sharp tongue will keep the commands
At bay like spears in the sides
Of the stammered. The swollen dagger
Hearts were bitten by a Cancer
Of the stars, spreading like luminaries
Devouring ***** by *****. Only
Your hands are free to tell the story now
To bathe in the rich fountains of new-born
Life, flowing from river to river carrying
Moses baskets and delivering us to
Our stolen caskets.

The Female Migrant
A customs official found a suitcase with a forgotten
Syrian refugee lady in it, he took her home blew life
into her and he was no longer alone.
Bought her **** underwear skirt and blouse and
a bicycle pump and no longer did he bother going out
drinking beer with his fellow officers.
A perfect little refugee she was so undemanding
and silent not for her to turn her back complaining
of a headache and other female ailments.
After wild night they had done it five times, she had
she had shrunk a morning there was a tear somewhere
in her *****, that could not be repaired or glued.
With manly logic, he blamed the refugees swamping his
country living off the fat of the land doing nothing and
thus, a love story ended on the scrap heap of humanity.

He did it out of a swamping sense
Of obligation

He did it because if no one else
Was going to do it.

He did it because he had been
Doing it.

Sometimes that was just
enough to keep
going.

Sometimes he wondered
If others thought why.

If they too got lost
looking for an answer that
Felt did not exist.

Truth?
He did it because
He was scared
to stop.

By Akintola  kunle:
Her days are not waking
Staring far and near and nothing cares
I could feel her depth like bud of soar
Flying ferociously like the storm
Hallows was her cry swamping .
Consuming everything that’s things.

By Lori Jones Mc Caffery:
Her hours were not wasted
Searching in the rubble for the rubies
Casting out the pearls and fiery opals
With a fury that belies tornados
Calling down the voices of the furies
To set flame to everything that's left.

By Akintola  kunle:
Raiding on a bustling horse back
Her craft will course your cut the more
Raven smile swallows scraggly whales
Neither blue or white she bed all
Angelic like the claws of the falconer
Telling me to plead for this stormy love
Winding every score in human me
She would bury my love after my lost.

By Lori  Jones Mc Caffery:
Turning on a golden thread
laced into the sunshine star awash
with ever jangling music made
From dreams and cotton candy
She sends out a reach that rocks
The world that I created and I find
That I am lost in everything I found.

Written by Akintola kunle and Lori Jones Mc Caffery

the ivy grows upwards
clawing at a ceiling fan  
looking to catch a glimpse of movement
the dust collecting on the blades is only proof of it's constant use
propelling a back and forth lasso of breath and exhale

my body has grown since last summer
the color of my eye mimicking jars of honey on your favorite shelf
I used to seek out momentum, the tumult of a sweaty night or the ongoing pulse of crowded people in small houses laughing about the spilled wine on hardwood floors
I can't tell if I was ever that person or if she was a catalyst of boredom swamping my every decision-making unable to make one properly for myself

I want noise and quiet
gritting teeth but a perfect mouth
I can't help but think of all my bones when walking outside
keeping me upright and unbreakable if only a shadowy and milky illusion
those places in my mind keep collecting freckles of dust and the people I've left behind now have blurry faces and unrecognizable personalities
but where there was once melancholy for different times
there's only a dog pulling me forward as the ivy grows up

My left hands scratches the air looking for some kind of support
I can't get up, all my attempts end up the same way
In a lame complain of my human condition
the only thing I'm able to see is the strange shine of the coffin in my right side
the wood is swamping in my ribs
I'm not sure where I am, and... the way  I got here
is still fuzzy, faces, names, melodies...they're just little glimpses
and when my fingertips cross the surface of this place
willing to find way out of here...the memories of our old world haunt my mind,
do you remember me?
would you come back?
make it easy, drag the simple linings of the light inside you
all the poetry you brag about
your fake promises and the sweet essence of your steps
you teached me how to light a candle in the middle of the darkness
but, how I've come to forget it all?
You've forgotten
and it's an unfinished symphony
darkness is all I have now

A month, with No. 8 in hand;
Varies with festive in band,
1, 2, 3… it passes away;
Gives smile with warming away.

A party month, with holiness nature;
Enjoy each day with notorious matter,
Hurray…hurray, swamping digs away;
Oh my, it’s august on a way.

A dawn of month, with friendship boom;
A matinee rise, with rakshabandhan,
Turns its way to salute independence;
Come in play during Janamashtmi.

A sacred month shows belief in god;
Pray the god like never before,
Nourishes qualities from head to toe;
That’s the way to be called August fever.