Tag Archives: literature

Tumbleweed

Standard

Drip, drip, drip
Another failure
Another slip
The unbearable
Dreary routine
Rusted to the tip
Some days I grumble
Others I mumble
I don’t fall
But I stumble
On glassy words
On pointy shards
Jagged swords
Like violin chords
Same old, same old
Tired of being told
Your dreams
Ambitions
Too bold, too bold!
Free me
If you see me
Lunging, plunging
In to tyranny
For I fear
Being unaware
Caught in despair
All flames, no flare

Prioress

Standard

Give me some time
Give me some space

Take me to a place

Where I won’t be asked
The tedious task

(A sigh, alas!)

Of rituals
Of prayers

By righteous sayers

Of pious deeds
Of noble needs

Underlying greeds

Pursuing what I cannot
Unforgiving when I forgot

To offer specific alms
To quell certain qualms

Shame
The sin to beautify

Blame
Till the day you die

Follow and obey
As they say

Dare not dismay!

Look pretty
Act petty

It’s all a game of pawns

Play dirty
Look sturdy

Until you are bygones

Mortals

Standard

Flashing blurry faces
one, two, and three
Tiptoed, scurried paces
thinking that we’re free

Street lights are fading
down a flashing sea
Paranoia raiding
so we can’t believe

Betting like horses on
humans of the streets
Weighing down moments
counting to sixty

Birthday cake candles
flicker eternity
Blown out a lifetime
pursuing sanity

Mumble, bumble, jumble
like a busy bee
Set ourselves on fire
just so we can breath

Prenup

Standard

Splotches of mud cover
my ugly orange dress;
black tear stains
chronicles of plight.

Do you love me, now?
Voodoo doll’s distress;
a hideous, melting rainbow’s
bipolar state of strife.

Scratching a throbbing tumor
chaotic, malignant mess;
blue, brown, purple, pink,
picture-perfect, and bright.

Veiled by a fabric
inhibiting my breath;
a kaleidoscope of moments
the most hideous sight.

Caught up in my throat
these hiccups called death;
jostling beneath my sternum
on road bumps called life.

Home

Standard
I.
There are many things one can identify instantly; colors, objects, places and names. But there are also things that take more time to identify; ideas, feelings. There might come a point in life where these two may overlap. At that crossroad, you find yourself grasping the blurred line like a trace of your finger on sand washed by the sea. There’s a concept that home is where you’re born, brought up and live. But adopted orphans have homes where they weren’t born. We may abandon our childhood homes for bigger, better houses. One may live in a dormitory and feel more at home than the place where they have to go back to every holiday. Someone’s safe place can be home, away from home; an attic, a playground, a device, a road or a stranger. Two arms can be more like home than four walls.
II.
I have a home. It was an old, tattered chicken coup where we hid ourselves from the rain to heal our broken bones at the price of our wings. Then I found out that I was born to fly, I knew I had it in me. So I’d fly only when I could. It was never enough. I started looking forward to my flights. I grew rebelliously fonder the more I was criticized and bashed for it. It was wrong and I knew it. But I still flew but with a pet’s tag around my neck and a pebble called guilt tied around my ankle. But flying away makes you tired and this home was getting exhausting. So I opened a map of all the possibilities that could help make a home of my own. I got lost so many times and always returned to the nest, a bit more broken than before. After a while I’d set out again and learn more about these paths. But you see, everyone already has a home of their own. They’ll let you in for a while as a guest. If you get comfortable they might ask for rent. No one likes sharing their own home much. At one point of course I gave up. From all I’d observed, all the paths I’d trodden, all the people I met I could only believe there was no escaping the nest. God had assigned me this home and that’s it. No matter where I went, I HAD to come back here. My damnation was absolute.
III.
Since I couldn’t escape my fate, I couldn’t expect to just find another home. I knew I had to make one for myself. Turns out that’s not as easy as I wished was and there was no way I could do it on my own. But when everyone’s already got a home, who would build a home with me? Someone as lost and misfit as me. The map didn’t show the way that lead to such people. From my observation I realized that these people walked among us, just a bit differently. You had to look out for the signs; a stray idea, a lofty mind, a cynic, a skeptic, a silent thinker, a loud (mis)leader. With time, I found many of these people. All of them figuring out what to do and where to go. Everyone fancied their own path. Except one.
IV.
What if you don’t even know that you’re home isn’t your home? No path makes sense because you don’t know where to go. That’s where people like me intervene. I found a lost one and showed him the sky. The infinity of the sky made him realize the limits of his home. It was unbelievable. All he knew and believed now stood up against each other in contradiction. I held his hand and we walked together through all these wondrous paths. Some I’d discovered and shared with him. Others we discovered together. We decided we needed and wanted each other in this journey to create a home. We had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
V.
I thought I knew what home was supposed to be like. I was mistaken when the iridescent light reflected on his iris. The black cracks in his deep brown, earthen eyes directed me. There’s a road I never knew of until there was no distance between us. It was a one way path; him to me and me to him. Our home is a refuge for intellect, an emotional safekeep within the walls of realism. There’s a room full of all that we say, share, think and believe. It resonates with laughter. Smiles shine through huge windows. When thunderstorms of doubt, fear, insecurity, inhibitions and despair try to shake our foundations, we lock our hands together and let the rain of tears wash away all that blinds out our happiness. We live in our home of love.