home

no fixed destination awaits me
once banished from the sidelines
and defencelessly walled in
this heartless space you cruelly dug
is now my exile.
don't forget.
this is my space. my place.
i set the standards here.

For another you

There is no room for you here.
Literally.
Disgusting - that is what you feel.
You peer into the mirror daily
and find only hate.
You pin up posters
of skeletal daffodils with hair
and ate leaves for weeks.

Still, you feel like a whale.

So you lead that stubby finger
into your mouth
and you retched till you're
blue in the face,
day in and out.
And for months,
you refused to stop, not
till you're small enough
to please their small
minds, which, by the way,
have once again, grown
smaller.

Elegy

Lifeless bones, sleep now, be quiet and hear

this rhapsody escaping through the pores

of parched skin. Sealed within this mere veneer

was once brilliance, now wrecked and void of force.

Her eyes, they poured forth floods of rectitude.

Now sunken, dulled with infinite ennui,

they're blind and reek of vulgar lassitude.

Perhaps darkness disdains veracity.

How well the rain traces her resting place.

The earth bears testament to her presence.

Those obstinate leaves cling to that pale face,

now found on flyers of missing persons -

the same paper used to silence her screams,

before he waved the axe and killed her dreams.

a walk

the intrusive rays awaken the senses
to which the serpents intuitively cling to,
stubbornly extending their grips onto stale
wood, stippled and worn
through the flogging of rancid
rain and snow

the air barely filched
against the faltering heartbeat
of two trespassers
laden with their inquisitive third-eye's
poised to etch the eery still on what would
have been flimsy cellulose

the moment glid through
a myriad of mind-boggling jargon
and was forcefully embraced by the dark & solitary object
quietly, unassumingly
the crossover of the silent entity
onto stark blankness
...till the ripples could form a wave

and the wave patiently washes over
a spin of vanishing thoughts

the writer sees
and her words
they slice through the fibres of truth

(Hello darlings! Forgive me if I keep posting, cos I'm doing a module on poetry and I really ought to practice more.)

the undesirables

Drone of the melancholic
Do kickstart the lull of the day
Let your decrepit fingers circle
The unfathomable abyss

Sway of the blasphemer
Poison that worldly tongue of yours
Serenade the wise with their stakes
In a game of obtuse charades

Lure of the nefarious
Hasten the drift, flog the weary
Denounce the eyes of innocence
As they're purified in dense flames

Kiss of the pariah
Embrace the abandoned stab wounds
Etch the love on a cynic's wan back
Till he bleeds a permanent scar

Dance of the falsifiers
Weave your condescending fabric
Delight in their wide-eyed naivety
For they drown in the floods of half-truth's

Flight of the insane
The grounded are locked in their cages
Seek to free the far-fetched fantasies
From those who wave their callous whips

oh! do desire the undesirables

the stolen verse part I

(The poem is pregnant with truth, and truth doesn't rhyme often, does it.)

These hands don't glisten
when reflection shines
with shards of cruelty
that had been left behind
by the most stubborn thorns -
a rose that is human flesh
they soften with time into pearls.
Not a wonder that they roll off his grip.

These hands don't impress
cracked like wrinkles on a woman's skin
with a curved and deep crevice
that runs through both upturned palms
and shape themselves into the smile
of the inamorato.
i think it is you.

Clairvoyancce is not my game
false security breaks with shame
but these hands are busy, building
a diorama of the empire
of the last fallen queen.
The face that sunk a thousand ships
has a successor to her name.
She sits there with red satin
overflowing the arms of the throne.

Meanwhile she hangs her lingerie
blood red brassieres on the line
swollen with the august gale
it dulls into deep maroon.
She laments her shame into contempt
and looks for the stolen verse.

The lacuna in your gospel
is the title of my tale
the uninked destiny you hoped to compose
robbed and ghostwritten by these hands.
Fury, learn the prints by heart
and hunt them down
the hands that cascade the storm
in the creeks of your open wound
and crash the story not yet spoken
onto the shore of a wordless island.

seasons

All that glitters is not gold
Even the sun keels over in despair
And weave an air of desolation
Amongst the wearied ones

Challenge the skies to pour
For it sprinkles too little of truth
And counts for near nothing
Till we could dance around the ironies

Run your fingers through the shadows
Without tracing the cracks on the wall
What have we left
But the skin and bones we came in

Look for the rhythm of the wind's rhapsody
Hum along and be forgotten
Like the leaves that swirl in red flames
To be trampled along men's way

untitled

unreadable
paled by random age
scarred by august rain
time unforgivingly stains

unspoken hymns live the un-dead
only callous
shut their quiet cries
unseen; none discover’d rage
spaced immovably in neat-ed lines

reigned untouchable in seasoned hands
to fade in forgotten land
a melody from memory
till sacred earthen dust

except nameless traveler
it’s worth, too dull to know
for fate might long have planned
to name a ciphered man