(A Poem)
As colourful as words are,A bulk of them lay stuckIn the back of the old man’s throat…
I will take a shower and cut my hair
I stopped falling.
The paving stones hit me with a dry smack. I got to my feet and looked up. The height of the drab…
They bother another,each other.Bodies bumping, skulls attacking —
a prose poem
If you pointed a spear at me, sharp and glistening like your words — those ones that glint and glare in a…
Would you hate me?
For I am the spite Draped in feathersThat wanders in your sky.
this is what we have become:the hand that refuses toscratch the itch on the neck