Ninja

Books//Textbooks//Notebooks//Scrapbooks…
Confusion…
I’m at judo class….. the bell rings.
Pages littered everywhere, at me they stare.
I stare back as I swing my sword back and forth, ready for battle.
I cut them…
Yes, I cut them in bits with my sword like pumpkin leaves
with a butcher’s knife in preparation for melon soup.
I lick my lips as the aroma of blood stings my nostrils.
My eyeballs fall into the pot, I stir it arrogantly,
onion water make my eyes water, I hiss.
……a ninja in the kitchen.
With a back flip and a spin,
I thrust my sword into the abdomen of my textbook
as I watch its content crawl down into the pot
like maple syrup on an almond cake.

Death’s delicacy.

I am scribbling notes like a toddler,
tear my head open with the edge of my sword,
and pour in the delicacy down to my spine as it envelopes my cerebrum
it’s what I wished for though.
I stare blankly at my scribbled notes like a tasteless meal.
I had killed all the ingredients I knew, and turned the dead into a delicacy.

I spat. I spat out my eyeballs and realized I was fighting backwards.
The bell rang, judo class was over.

I’d still be a Ninja.

Let the Sleeping Dogs Lie

The whiskey eyes I drowned in, is where I died.
The feelings I masked so well resurrected, like a nightmare that felt so good;
that always kept me screaming your name till I couldn’t feel me.

There’s a shadow beside my bed and as I stare intently, passionately, I find myself
kissing pictures…. I’ve gone crazy.
And when I wipe the glass mirrors at work, I see you staring at my lips…. I look away.

This is just torture.

I take my hand so I can’t let go; I’m just craving champagne –
every red wine now looks like the blood you took from me.
And like a twig, you broke that connection.
That electricity that gave me life, you kissed it away.
Now I’m like a dead battery.

Walking dead.
With the memories that I fed on in my hand, I walk to the graveyard –
the place I found you, and I place the memories gently beside you.

It’s time to let the sleeping dogs lie.
So I let you lie – dead in my mind.

Quarantine

I’m isolated. Not thinking; not screaming…just lost in my own thoughts.

Am I a thorn amongst lilies? The “precious” thread I’ve held for so long
chokes me till I vanish.
A virus I caught while holding on; unto a thread I thought would save me…
…it just wanted a taste of my pain.
Leaving me isolated alongside other convicts.
For I’m imprisoned in space for the choice that I made. I’m hospitalized
and as I stare at the doctors, they shake their heads slowly and sadly,
whispering gently, “There’s no cure… I’m sorry”.
Their voices sound faint, or is it my thought that’s fading?
Was it wrong that I touched one infected with love but now
I’m completely insane?
Is it fair that I hungered for passion and now I’m fed with anxiety and
pain?

For the doctors have no cure, yet my thoughts remain impure; and I
use the thread I grasped so tightly, to hang myself till I’m free; till I’m
reassured…..till my pain is no more.

Is this me?
I know not really who is the next in line.
Who is willing to hold on to the thread…that thread – my dread.
Who is ready to be choked, till he can’t breathe, by love’s vines;
and be thrown down into hell’s busy quarantine.

I won’t consider it again……smirks.
T’is good to be finally free; t’is good to be me.
Sighs.

Untitled

Humid thoughts dripping down my skull, refurbish their way back to my mortal brain.
I question my tenaciousness.
I’m damp….
No!
I’m dripping wet from the sun’s thorns etching my heart –
my blood drips; or is it the winter
I so yearned for? I pulchrified my soul, yet I felt so grostesque.
I’ve been defiant these years; the winds were horrisonant.
I’m desperate…
No. I WAS desperate to show off my measly scars to phizogs
that turned their backs on me;
to eyes that refused to see;
to hearts that had no glee.
They say scars tell a story;
My scars had no one to portray its story to,
so I burned them long ago and buried them in lifeless heaps.
I’ve taught myself never to pule over temporal circumstances.
I had risen from the dust like a frail zombie twinging for revenge,
but I sought just one thing – murder.
I had masked myself as a serial killer, constantly killing emotions
that begged to tear me apart and I’ve been impeccable; I’ve been licentious. I’m not a robot that’s always getting damaged and requiring repair.
I’m an immortal trapped in a mortal cup.
Yes; I’m a slow driver, nevertheless a fast runner.
I’d kill 10 men within minutes and run without a backward glance.
Not running because I’m a coward, but running
because I’m really determined to be what I’m not – merciless.
Now I am just a voice like sunset, hiding in the darkness.
I bequeath my winter to summer,
I want no regrets but to illuminate my words.
To dig up my location, my address is 52 Poetry Road,
Writers Community, WWW;

a demigoddess.

Till then, my details remain “Untitled.”

BLACKmail

The clock ticks once backwards.
An hour ago….
Yonder across the sea laid the terror of the morning.
“Knock, knock”, cried the “freight” in the box, its motion paved way to agony.
Boxes of humans were mailed to destinations where death was a guest,
sealed in white envelopes where the sons of Adam found no rest.
One man arises and an arrow of despair is shot
as it gorges out his soul and spits it on the dust.
We were postcards. Blamed for ignominy.
Output of treachery.
Brotherhood discarded us, mailed us for gold stones
and our worth was divided among the worthless in disguise of white suits.
Our name was sold and we bore the name of another without opposition.
It wasn’t adultery, it was rape.
Darkness in light’s clothing.
Ruffians in priests’ apparel.
They caused sinusoidal pain, the scar yet did remain.

The clock yet ticking.
A minute later…
There arose saviours from slaves,
fighters from the feeble, warriors from wimps.
Our pain began to heal, our blinded eyes began to see,
our sealed hearts gained insight and our broken hearts, foresight.
We carried the snowballs and threw them where the snow falls.
The clock keeps ticking, we keep healing,
our eyes yet seeing, our hearts yet believing.
We put forth abjugators to lead us, and invincible we became.
Vanquishers yet we are.

The Sacrifice

With my forehead swallowed by my hands
My vision is blurry because what I see,
No ordinary man understands
what goes on in front of me.

I drink my blood daily,
The dust is my meal.
My wife becomes Holy Mary,
because she knows a bit of what I feel.

I’ve exchanged my life for patriotism.
Even though my soul may not suffice.
There’s no turning back now, I’m locked in a prism.
My time and life is my mortal sacrifice.

Red Sea

He can not define life.
The thunder claps and turns misery to strife.
He beheld little men at the border.
His eyes spoke once, his lips twice, they did shudder.

He creates warriors for his ecstasy.
He showed them the waves where the demons dost flee.
They took a step back and smiled, they dared not hide.
They dug into his soul and deep down they knew, he lied.
He cared not; they dared not look in his eye,
Where wrath blew like a whirlwind and summer colours did fly.

“I can but tell thee to leave”, he roared to their ears.
“Thy wrath be with thee, thy power with us”, they said with no fear.
With unprecedented fury, he rushed to his prey.
And with a cane, they waved at him, his elements parted two ways.
They marched on his nakedness with a grin.
And watched his pride slide off like sin.

A Letter to the Dust

Dear Dust,

A story I would share, the story in my mind;
for the agony I cannot bear, is that I always find.
Read it out, read it well; I’m a voiceless song, a fireless hell:

T’was raining.
Pregnant grey clouds buried hatred in their bosom and clapped with delight.
For me was twice younger when my hands touched the cold master in fright.
My fingers were frail, my lips were supple;
my brown hair curled its tail as the shadow greased my bubble.
Now all I do is mewl, for I have lost my words;
the thorns in my heart etched my bones.

It is not raining anymore.
But, I still see those pregnant grey storm clouds hanging in my heart;
unmoving stones keeping my soul bowed.
Now I am just an erstwhile glitter,
patched up with beauty, grinning sadly.
A drop of water kisses my breast, I look up.
This time it is not the rain, it is my tears.
It pours down to the dust.
Please Dust, accept my tears with kindness. Thanks.


Yours sincerely,

A Broken Voice.

THOUGHTS

SHE: You walked home alone. Without strength, you fought. I landed in darkness, stone cold; hands tied with drought. I was cut from you, not left with much. Your explanation for such?

HER: My pupils dilated 5mm; I fainted. Hell’s my babysitter, t’is bitter. Lights were around me, I couldn’t see. I thought I was blind, then I figured twas my mind playing tricks on me. You drove me to a ditch, and when I thought I could stitch myself, you said, “no”. I took three pills thrice, that’s how far I could go. You committed a sin.

SHE: Blame yourself, for your sin be upon you. I told you, “you fought without strength” yet you couldn’t fight me. When the shadow falls in a ditch, it does not suffer. It’s the corpse that is pictured in newspapers. I repeat, “Blame yourself”. For you have limps, I have but a voice. I tell you, you do. We are but the puppet and its puppeteer.

HER: Wicked are you! You shall suffer….. no, I shall suffer. I shall forever regret thrice than you, for you shall surely escape.

SHE: You shall indeed suffer. Regret shall no more be your guest, but your roommate. For where you are, there he shall be also. I do not cry for me, I cry for you.

HER: I too. Let no man be like unto me, for there is no turning back.

The Sketch

Tears in paint boxes queued up at his feet; he’s faint as he held his ego like a pen with his teeth (his arms are weak), drawing lines on blank space in bleak tunnels. He begins with his face.

It was 12pm.

He took two buttons from his shirt and carved out his eyes because they were hollow, wallowing in mire, darkened with guilt; underneath, his nose is built like a bridge. Each line falls from his pen, he draws his arms without elbows. He is scared to stand so he crawls. He doesn’t shade because he is afraid of the dark; he lost his voice, so he’s dumb.

He sneezed out curved lines to form his abdomen – he called himself, “the wreck”. His only consolation were the straight lines of his legs, pointing to the dust and, his brave feet that kissed the earth – the only place he’ll find solace; the grave. He stared at his sketch like a starved wretch, he forgot to draw his lips because he had always forgotten what a smile looked like. He spat out a horizontal line blandly… that’s enough.

He sprang up to his feet to fold his neat truth, his pen splashed its ink on the eyes of his sketch, staining it red. He glared at it…… now it’s complete.

It’s 12am now.

He stood at the border of the river, dropping the sketch into the clear water with a shudder, as he watched the waves engulf his masterpiece – himself, it swam to the bottom of the river. He smiled and patted his chest; as the bubbles blew him a kiss, he whispered to himself with a still soft voice, “Rest in peace.”

12 O’Clock

When deep waters seem at peace,
my soul’s put to test.
When my eyes know no boundaries and
my fingers aren’t untied, my lips mutter in need –
a tasty meal is all it seeks.

12 o’clock
When my stomach rumbles like waters in large caverns desperate
for freedom.
My eyes becomes the butterfly seeking nectar,
sweetness dances in front of me.
It suddenly feels like death is calling, but deceit walks through
my nose like a passage to the pit where my patience builds.
I’m suddenly 5 years old in anatomy.

12 o’clock
The sun heats my eyes and I see darkness.
It is summer but everywhere seems cold and my body starts to freeze.
I run, like a gazelle, from hungry lions in my imaginations.
I jump into the ocean, it is afraid to swallow me.
I struggle to drown.

12 o’clock
I scream at the top of my lungs while
looking at the sky with utmost sincerity,
“If I perish, I perish!”

Scandal

Elegant beauty; princess becomes enslaved.
Her books – her wishes; the results – an irony.
She’s 16, with the curves of an 18 year old; her mind’s 25 already.
Her breasts are formed from the hypnotizing caresses from the ’50s.
A gentle knock, a charming smile, batting lashes –
and her books turn to the bed; and instead of silence, moaning –

two hearts beating, or more.
The agony of a student; the shame of a father.
She takes pills so an unfortunate human
isn’t brought into such an unfortunate world.

If human hands could make one’s skin glow,
then she’s an angel; the only bright light in hell.
Her tormentors – her conscience.
She tells herself, “there’s no turning back now”,
because she wants to tread the path many girls walk – the broad way,
and show her dad her grades with a smiling face;
a certificate from her incessant “hard work.”

Only she knows the secret, and the men who hold the key to her success.
She fights daily to balance and tidy herself in this outrageous scandal.

Little Guy

In filthiness you were my companion,
upon snowy hills and rainy clouds ’til
winter be gone. Spring kisses the snowflakes
goodbye – tis’ a good sign though. I walk through
mire but my feet does not taste nature’s meal;
as my eyes see what my toes cannot ’til
I find fresh pools where I drink with camels
and donkeys, for my journey is thus far.
Pitiful to think that this little guy
bears the pain of my feet: kisses I wish
to present to him, but a soul he lacks
and would not count my good deeds for pennies.
My shoulders slack but not as much as this
little guy as his head hits the dust with
the rage I carry. A little honour
should be bestowed on he who bears the yoke;
for if he costed nothing, his deeds may
have been more priceless if measured rightly.

My little guy bear thou a little longer,
I cherish thee more than a soul would hunger.

Miscalculated Actions

He is but a boy in adult clothing masked with a baby’s tears.
His grief are his memories, the actions that shattered him like a puzzle.
If his life were an algebra, he couldn’t find “x.”
Shackles in grey-stained paints dangle loosely on the creature
in vertical position, his body inclined 75° to the horizontal,
his mind filled with rage as the root of his burden
is the square of his problems.
In addition to his pain, his groin is dry as it loses its taste of liquor
that he so yearned for, from hotels’ heavenly gates, in his dim lit cage.
Now all he does is fantasize about love, peace, happiness.
And freedom.
He solved his life like a simultaneous equation –
eliminating his good friends and substituting his lungs for pleasure –
and ended up arriving at the wrong answer.
Subtracting his thoughts from his mind,
he is weak and like a wimp he staggers helplessly,
clutching the loose flesh swaying on his bones.
He blames his character, I blame his mind. It said, he did;
its words, his deeds.
He stares distastefully at his answer and realizes he used a wrong formula.
If only he solved it better, his life wouldn’t be incorrect.
Now he waits for the internal and external examiners to decide his fate.

Before Sunrise….

He has unseen visions coated in black and white, frozen in time.
He has colours in his eyes because the rainbow stains
his iris after his tears fall as rain.
It is storm in his heart that causes shipwrecks but his soul remains afloat.
His body drowns in sin;
He struggles at first, but then he lets its deceitful savoury overwhelm him,
and he says to himself, “Happy am I.”
He prepares for battle, but the war is within his mind.
He is, but a street dog, fighting for dirt because he can not see,
it is yet still dark.

Pride is a ghost rider.

It took him, yea took him thither.
Now he canst not go on his knees and tell the Unseen Master, “Have mercy.”

Guilt is not a slave, but a master.
He rides on the poor man’s conscience like a horse to battle
and makes him fight with himself.
He takes him to the middle of the Red Sea.
He drowns.
But, it is not the end.
When the sun rises upon him he shall, without doubt, be cleansed.
But, cleansing…is a choice. Freedom…is a decision.
To be saved…is a volition.

He chooses life, he lives.
He chooses death, he dies.
Foolishness is not a sin, but a curse.
And it is…but a choice.