Dear......

I am trying to cover my sadness with words.
Tape them against my scars
And wear them like worthy paper cuts.
My tears are alcohol swabs,
Burning and cleansing wounds of my own making.
Sometimes,I wish I could hide behind them forever.
But not even this journeyed flesh can stand
castle strong against speechless ink stains.
I know the code. 

This body does not deserve a warriors death. 
And  poetry, you're a monster,
A creative monster, but evil nonetheless.
I wish to string you into knots,
force feed you down the throats of others.
De-format you and leave you empty.
free-versed to hang loosely along the heartstrings
of strangers, and past lovers.
 

We are the perfect poster children for
battered homes, aren't we poetry?
The dysfunctional couple
black-eyed and angry love.

You can't protect me from myself forever.

I'm a Vase...

 I'm a vase
to break me
you have to
push me over the edge.
to fix me,
just melt me with your lies
and mold me into something new

something  you'll be more
infatuated with.

and when that something
gets old,
change  me into
something new.

Sweet smoke….

At the other end of the wall
She leaned and smokes
The weeds vapor
Spreads like fog
Sunlight filtering through the haze

Multiplied ten folds
The stinging smell of burned Weed
Or is that flesh?
Can’t tell the difference
Spreads slowly
All around

Fills the head
The lungs
Ah! Sweet surrender
Into the arms

Of smoke….
Sweet smoke….

She...

I might be dangerously on the verge of being poetic, but-

Sometimes I don't feel me in my own skin.

I am too many breaks between pulses,
and a heart still living in the autumn of 09.
I'm telling stories about a girl.

A soul made of ink and godly metaphors,

too much for a non-homeostatic body.
There were once fireflies in her smile,

alight between the gaps in her teeth.
A rebel,
  love letters carved into wrists
         she never sent.          

She is beautiful...

                                        She is stardust leaving sweet bones in her wake. 
                                                      A trail of poetic destruction
                                conceived in verse--answering questions with kisses. 
                                    There is a hunger in her freckled constellations,
                                like spider webs woven together with golden thread.
                                        Like the wild roses she braids in her hair:
                                      She walks back-boned and head held high;
                           the strongest of letters on a page left to rest in your mouth.

God, please do the needful.

Despite differing drastically in form, name and dress code, there is one thing Gods from around the planet have in common – Omniscience. By the virtue of being the creator, God sees everything. God knows everything. Sometimes even before the things happen. He, or Alanis Morissette in one particular case, is the master of everything. He is aware of it all. He hears the pin drop. He knows where the needle is. And all that without even trying. So when you go shoot off your prayers, requesting a better job for instance, aren’t you making a fool of yourself? The bugger knows you are struggling with your current job. He's the one who put you in that cubicle. He even knows what you secretly call your boss. And with a bit of common sense, and of course mind reading skills, he also knows that you want a new one. So what is the point of praying to him and cribbing about something he already knows, or even better, something he himself devised during potty? Instead, why don’t you just look at the sky, or any of the million divine symbols, and say, “God, please do the needful.”

I am....

I am a scientist;
Pinning down ideas
like butterflies
preserving them in
their fragile beauty
as I take away their freedom,
their life.

I am a parasite;
sucking the soul out
of music and leaving it
a hollow shell
that plays like
the noisy silence in
my ears.

I am a thief;
taking what is not mine,
the world around me,
and pouring it into
a mould that
I claim is
my own.

I am a blasphemer;
playing God in a
sacred place, changing
the world to my
liking when the orchestra
is not under my
conduction.

I am a liar;
selling false havens
to lonely runaways,
giving them a glimpse
of a world more glamorous,
more fantastic than their own,
smiling as I snatch it
from under their noses
while they thank me
for my crime.

I am a slave;
hanging in a
leeching relationship
with the language I choose,
caving to its rules
when I draw in
smears of its
blood.

I am a writer –
these are my vices.