Bruises

“You’re my muse”, he said with a smirk.
I’m just an inspiration for your
creative dark arts,
Painted in illusive colours of my own bruises
And displayed in gallery of saints.
Nothing but an exhibition of charade.

-

Are some questions hard to ask?
What was I made for?
Do you really love me?
Are we family? Do we make a good team?
Am I good enough?
Perhaps, some day…we would never know.
Would we?

-

All living things must die,
Is a cliché that’s outlived death.
We feast, spit on and walk
Past our soil of eternal abode.
Let’s go on this voyage together.
Qué será será

-

To book an appointment with our dentist,
Because, they are too sweet
Or a visit to our Cobbler’s;
Those shoes are due for a change
And no one knows how it hurts…

-

What’s beneath your feet?
The sand, the ground…
A cliché response!
My thoughts had a
Tete a tete with my imagination,
At dinner…about the subject.
Beneath your feet, lies
An orthopedic eternal sofa,
A hollow bed, dark and quiet.
A lonely space away
from the buzzing sound
Of the motorists that ply the streets
In your neighborhood.
There you find rest in peace.
Ironically, you walk pass it each day
without knowing your exact spot…

-

Sometimes it feels like
The whole world is against you.
Sometimes it feels like your feet
Can’t carry your body.
Sometimes it feels like your
Eyes are against you, all they see
Are evil days ahead.
Sometimes it feels like
There’s no light at the end
Of the tunnel.
Sometime it feels like
Some times don’t exist.

-

There’s a chain of struggle,
Chocked by one’s fears.
We drank our tears
And bathed in our sweat.
Our nails we ate,
Our pride we stomached
Just to make ends meet.

-

Some beautiful souls they say
Are covered with tattoos
It’s best not to judge a book by its cover
Yet he met his Waterloo.
Oh well, she served him
A mouthwatering dinner
Only to be served
A tonic of vinegar as breakfast.
They christened it, love at night
Hate at dawn…
The red flags he saw,
But red bottoms were his
Non sexual fetish…
How did you make burgundy
Your Favourite Colour?

-

Sometimes it’s extraordinaire
With a touch of perfection.
Other times, it’s simply basic…
Just like the cliché
“Same old, same old”.

There’s a Cold War,
The Phalanges and keypads
Are no longer lovers
And the mind is no longer in warm
Embrace with the soul…

-

Hello Diary,

Here we go! It’s a new a day
With the sunrise beside me
This time not in the white clouds
But on my white sheet.

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