Inanimate.

The paths, why walk them?
The beings, why meet them?
Changed direction, dissimilar inclination
Doesn't halt, does not sojourn.
Why walk? Why meet?
Why keep going on?

The vagabond, the tramp
Galavants about
Carries all the sickness of life
Wins some, loses some
loses more, wins more
Happiness pricking like a knife


Every crossroad;
A new face, a new story told
Every crossroad; 
A new melancholy also sold
The impatient.
The insecure.


Chaos, Uncertainty and a Hurricane of a way
Silence, Muteness on a Path sans any say
The wife.
The whore.
The impatient.
The insecure.


The name; comes and goes in waves
Reaches the shore, ends up a knave
The misadventure.
The failure.
The wife.
The whore.
The impatient.
The insecure...

A Free Bitch, Baby

Her desires are whores

Her dreams, too, sluts

Thought the heart was all hers

Turns out, he's a tramp too

Apologies to the life that got her

She ate the life up

Frustrated it

Filled it with plague

She told them to get her the stars

The stars in a pretty cage

She told them to light it up

The stars in a pretty cage

But they were prostitutes

All of them

Her stories were whores

Her ways, too, sluts

Thought the heart was all hers

Turns out, he's a tramp too

For every face she tore

She was faced by uglier ones

A naive little bird danced

Danced and became a peacock

She became the prostitute and the saint

They became the wives and the virgins

Her liaisons were whores

Her lovers, too, sluts

Thought the heart was all hers

Turns out, he's a tramp too

Parabolic.

I am sorry for having had you dressed up and then not calling.
No, wait! That was you.

I am sorry for painting pictures of happiness and then splashing dirty waters all over them.
No, wait! That was you.

I am sorry for undermining you and for treating you like a back up furniture.
No, wait! That was you.

I am sorry for telling you that I loved you, when in fact, I did not.
No, wait! That was you.

I am sorry for failing to keep the promises I made to you.
No, wait! That was you.

But, most of all,
I am sorry that now I am the center of your universe, seemingly.
No, wait! THAT IS YOU.

I think you let me control you too much.
No, wait! Still, you...

Father, the Stranger.

Those were days too
So are these
Those were nights too
So are these
This night shall pass too...

Walking on a red cloud
A burning golden tear
The dream might end
The night will stay, however
This night shall pass too...

Time will pass through the fog of years
Perhaps even your face will be forgotten
When I close my eyes
Perhaps I'll sleep without grief as well
This night shall pass too...

Your evident arrogance
My exaggerated stubbornness
You make me feel worthless
Maybe, deservingly so
This night shall pass too...

Not an unfulfilled childhood
No unrealised dreams
Just abusive reminiscence
Just a hurtful void
This night shall pass too...

of Pixies and the enchanted forests..

He has the prettiest hands;
the kind that are long finger-ed. And firm.
My hand fits perfectly into his.
He's a lover;
the kind that wraps his arms around you.
Both of us can listen to songs by Pixies all afternoon.
He's funny and witty;
the kind you have a repartee with
He also stops to check if I am hurting.
He's a listener;
the kind that not only listens but also gets.
We plan to discover some enchanted forests someday.
He's a talker;
the kind that creates memorable conversations out of a rendezvous.
We spoke about Heaven and Hell the other day.
He's not too tall;
the kind that's just about as tall to have my head rest perfectly on his chest when he hugs me.
He does that a lot.
He's sexual;
the kind writers write about.
There are imprints of his burning lips all over me.
Still.