Short Poem

born a long time ago we bought the lie hook, line and sinker: that hustle is the only way to make fire. rubbing frail limbs together like so many twigs, hoping for a spark, a flash to illuminate our faces — just for a second —in the dank and the…

It’s about being; we’ve all been obsessing over the ‘yourself’ part of it until now. Just be… Your self follows.

- The Wallflower They called her the wallflower, quiet and unassuming. Comprised of fragile petals easily plucked and pulled apart. What they could not see was how she blossomed in the naked frost like a winter rose and somehow survived the harshest of conditions, remaining a thing of beauty to behold.

A modern engraving in words — The engraved world is frozen in half-step. The final act of a random eternal saga; On the silence hangs a worn coat Of an evening-long nothingness. The rays of the rainy night are creeping in, Fired through the ghostly window glass By ranks of grimy streetlamps. In my cell, behind the armor of the door, In sleep, I remember the fresh smell And the slippery sound, the touch of soft paws, And the indifferent colour (how strange!) of old dreams… In the slumbering geometry of corners, That dominates my misty gaze, The time has gnawed out dusky holes, And through them, I can feel the verdict, The silent blues of half-decayed words.

Do you want to go back? To the past? To the old you? For so many around you, you are only a photograph. Something taken once, to remain the same forever. What would you want? Who do you want to be? For those who yearn for the past, I say go back. See why you loved it once and still do. For those who want to move forward, get ready to take a giant leap of faith. And for those who still don’t know, the world is your oyster.

I hurt myself to make people laugh. I have a banana peel in my pocket at all times. Adults turn their yells to cackling. It’s a different shade of mad. I can kick myself in the face, you know. People would ask me to do it again. They would gather in circles. My chubby cheeks stomped red. God, she would say, you look like such a clown. Everyone grows tired of my stories. Especially when it’s time to be real. I tell everyone I like to hurt myself. They tell me it’s time to be real

“In a jungle not far away, where the waters breath silent, A lone tusker trumpets. Riddled by its path, ridiculed by its own company, A lone tusker trumpets. A single tear drop ricocheting, Reliving its family’s final moments, A lone tusker trumpets. Tumbling slowly by the pain, thoughts racing, emotions overwhelming, A lone tusker trumpets. Eyes drooping, consciousness slipping by, a drop of blood for every moment it lived,