I am sitting on a leather sofa
In front of me a low oval wooden table
On the table a glass
In the glass some whiskey
In the whiskey some sleep
In the sleep an oblivion
In the oblivion some solace
That You could have given me
By not drinking the whiskey
By not getting high
By not abusing me
By not getting killed
By not sending me to jail
By not depressing me
By not making me a drunk
By not making me drink the whiskey
In the glass
On the low oval wooden table
In front of the leather sofa
That I just left
For good
For our home
For another leather sofa
Where we made love the first time
Where we fought the last time
Where your eviscerated body lay that day
Where asleep now lies another:
A helpless little body commemorating our dead love story.

India ;
a country where
approximately, 80 rapes happen in a single day
(78 murders )( 23 fake alimony cases) ( burglery rate 7.2)
the country which allows and rewards rapists
letting them roam free

in a country that is so poor;
"the poor" are not even seen as human beings
killing them; ****** them ; driving a ******* whole car on them ;
and the jury will make you write a ******* essay
the system will blame the driver
and the society will blame the poor
such a pathetic nation

but we still sing
with pride every morning
forgetting every ******* case
every ******* human whose done such thing
and watching movies and other such media made by pedophiles , rapists , molesters , murderers

Poems don’t have to rhyme, free verse it isn’t a crime
I can write what I please—don’t call the police.
Must I play the game, both rhyme and spill intimate things?
Can I develop leitmotifs without rhyming riffs?
I could claim I’m writing prose - yeah, be one of those.
No one can rhyme all the time.
I can refuse—I’m no Dr F-ing Seuss,
**** it! ← See? THAT didn’t rhyme.
(sirens in the distance)
.
.
Fun songs for this:
Ain't It Fun by Paramore
It's All Your Fault (with Katie Shore) by Asleep At The Wheel

A Monday night thriller:
His wife was the killer
The steel pierced his chest
And time did the rest

He thought it was hidden:
A dual life, forbidden
But, time had remarked
Another love, sparked

A culprit was shown
The "friend" she had known
Had crafted a lie
And made him her guy

The second girl learned
That vengeance still burned
She let her inside
That night, three had died...

I was killed
Multiple times
In multiple ways
By the same people
At the same place.

Why do you run,
Dear?
I love you,
Please don’t fear.
I’ll take this knife
To your ribs;
Slice open your chest
Toy with your life.
If you would just love me
Maybe I’d play a bit nicer;
But right now I’ll sear your flesh
With my favorite BIC™ lighter.

Slop
in the trough.
Poison cough.
Shattered femur.
No dreamer.
In a world of crime
It is
Time

I did it
I finally did it
And I don't regret it!
I killed him
with my own hands
Let him bleed out on the floor
Gutted by the blade of the knife I held in my hands.
I can still hear his screams
His terror
His agony
as the sharp metal pierced his flesh.
I laughed at her agony
Enjoyed his screams,
Rejoiced in the fear I caused him,
the same one he caused me for years
Trapped me in his world of terror
giving me no respite.
A smug smile took shape on my face
as I thought back and observed my masterpiece.
The helpless body of a man
who didn't deserve forgiveness
who didn't deserve to live.
So yes, I did, gentlemen
And as I said
I do not regret it.

I have nothing more to add, your honor.


"Confession of ****** --------- ------- -----------. The case is considered closed."

Sweet the girl and tender her age,
She's too young for the fire's rage.
But, alas, the law still stands,
And punishment for her crime demands.

Little Oshichi, that greengrocer girl,
Her hands, restrain; and hair, unfurl.
She stands upright against the stake,
Weeping as she regrets her mistake.

She had fallen in love with a page,
While a fire had roared and raged.
As her house was burnt away,
Love, within her heart, gave way.

Entranced, enraptured, and captured with him,
Oshichi went forth on a fanciful whim.
Believing that it would bring them together,
She struck a flint and started a fire.

A clanging tocsin pierced the night,
"Me-gumi, hark! There's a fire to fight!"
A throng of ***** steeplejack boys
Rush to the scene with swaggering poise.

Oshichi now gazed in horror, aghast,
Watching as the fire spread fast–
Her dream of meeting her youthful lover
Set ablaze with burning desire.

Arrested, tried, and sentenced to suffer,
The judge, kind sir, tried his best to save her.
"Are you not 15?" he asked, worriedly.
"I'm 16, my lord," she answered meekly.

Bewildered and anxious, he asked yet again,
"Surely you're 15, young one, dear saint?"
She bowed her head and shed a tear.
"No... I'm 16," she answered with fear.

Cursing his fate, the judge had no choice.
He gave his sentence with a downcast voice:
"Yaoya Oshichi–what girl so tender–
Shall be burnt an arson offender."

Bound and burnt for want of love,
Oshichi lifts her gaze above.
Weeping as her smoke ascends,
She cries to heaven, its mercy lend.

At last, Oshichi succumbs to the fire,
Consumed by passion borne of desire.
Sweet the girl and bitter the flame,
As her lover cries out her name.