My heart carries myriads of stitches,
A random display of worn out breaches
And if scars carried labels, your name would be signed on every visible molecule of my heart.
Falling in love is no different from
Asking a deaf and dumb to sing out the fifth line of Ed Sheeran’s…
I come through to you in all my midnightly presence to show you this sacrifice for love is worth better than a dear price.
You are a sacred symphony only murmured by angels, chewed on, in the middle of a bitter meal to…
Wrapped over my falling head yet I still...
Walking with my semi-active vision I feel...
Combination of emotions tested surreal...
Brushing through my memory’s field,
I smile even at the errant attempt of we,
Cuz at the end, beautiful is lesser than real.
Would you believe my broken heart loves you still?
Strewn upon these sullying grounds,
I’ve ridden with the broken pieces
Of a not-so-pleasant face with britches,
Working effortlessly to cadence pleasant sounds
Now it’s moulded into a man with less downs.
The mirages of my experience now sing aloud
Fine songs of a fanny magnet you glided into.
Attraction, suave, articulately tall, I’m brewed,
To the awe…
What about those twisted lines on your forehead?
Drilled, sketched out like waves dancing on an ocean bed.
I wrote my first poem looking at those sweet curves upon those jaws of yours.
Sad it is today, they call you “dirty Sylvana”, with all those fleshy floors,
Deepened down to…
A million questions;
What do i know much brighter than snow?
Hairy skinned mountains up high there and so,
An ocean that flows to what end I dont know.
I think I ponder what force makes all mysteries?
Who colors some man skin as dark as a negro?
Who makes someones haughty and full of such ego?
What keeps some so meek, this humble and low?
I search night and day to what owes us these histories?
These bombs and these weapons who made them also?
Disease and disaster, who plagues us with though?
Humankind in chaos, why wicked, why cold?
I ask are there answers to heal such grave miseries?
Why so much respect for that fellow with gold?
Can someone not do same to the poor, the old?
Or money is worshipped and riches control?
Only God is the judge.
Just he has these answers.
I am a drunkard from a village of monks,
Singing my sad songs in a cabaret of punks,
Each one with eyes carrying tea bags,
I struck a high key and I watched them gag,
“My wife, she nags!” the ageing priest cried,
As a virgin whore called out “who’s ready tonight?”
We drowned deep in clouds, though seemed far,
It was time to go, I had to leave her.
I dragged my bones and vanished like dew,
While my watch kept singing a song, tic toc.
There I go travelling, like the eons of times,
Falling in love with the women, the wine, the blues, and the chimes.
I am a wandering symphony they dance to.
My life is drenched in these blues!
My feelings lay,
In a threshold. Confused!
My heart begets,
A swell hole. Denied.
Like winter dry,
A bottle’s butt. Frozen.
In dripping drops,
My fingers cower. Quivering.
To hold you,
And tell you,
I love you,
A choke-hold that meets me in silence.
As I cry,
At your feelings, dead cold
Towards I, who loves you so.
So, I long to butterfly
In many ways, I beautify
I have dreams to fly
When time says high!
Who be I?
To not touch the sky?
I believe in angels. I believe in twilights at mornings, stardust at dusk. …