Despair.
As all of them are cheering in joy.

Stay inside.
While everyone’s dancing out on the streets.

Back off.
When lovers’ teasing becomes a fight.

Stay silent.
As they are roaring in anger as one.

Turn away.
The battleground’s lament in your back.

And wait.

For them to see.

For them to repent.

For them to act.

Stay. With yourself.

Not in spite.
But because.

This goes out to every single one of you.

I have stood at the bloodline of time

The blood of the Jew
The blood of the Christian
The blood of the African American
The Blood of Muslim

They bleed for divine love
Atheists bleed for Darwin's blood
Crows bleed for all those above

One must bleed for blood

Governance bleeds on where democracy dies
Society bleeds on their corrupt blood lies

Infected curse blood of unfit politics
Spilling the blood of Rebellious Heretics

Time shows our fate
We bleed for hate

Unlike most other animals
Homo sapiens resorts to an array
regularly donning her/
himself with garish attire
plus a dollop
of heavily scented cologne
upon handing a bouquet
to their equally groomed
and primped counterpart,
who underwent makeover
for special occasion
no matter their outing
at McDonalds cafe
nevertheless delicious
cheaply tricked out date
eager to meet supertramp
appears as dainty appetizer,
draped like a dozen roses
yet inaccessible courtesy

A notification jolted my dreams
in the wee hours of yesternight.
It was the bank: my pay had arrived.
For this, I’d forsaken everything, including friends.

Cobbwebs clinged to my lashes as I stared at the screen,
muttering, “This money isn’t mine.”
It was one digit less than expected.
“The greedy bastard,” exclaimed I.

I’d made promises, leveraged on that cheque—
what would I say when dawn broke and I faced my brother?
I had promised him that month I’d break my back for his sake.

Blank.


I am a canvas.
My painting - a life supposed to be told.
In bold colors.
Eventually covered by a thick layer of dull white.

I am blank now.
Meant to be used.
Meant to be painted upon.
Meant to reflect.
The story of others.

I am your canvas now.
The place to dump your darkness.
The mirror to your life.

Layer upon layer I soak in.
To hide away.
To forget.
The story that was underneath.

I am a canvas.
I am blank.
All dull black now.

I left the path untouched
wood still breathing over the river
that learned the sound of your name

Your number still sleeps in my phone
a ghost curled inside glass,
waking hope
every time the screen flickers

Our pictures remain
small museums of a past
that refuses to close its eyes

And my arms
two empty rooms
still warm
from the last time you lived there

I thought leaving everything open
would guide you home

But seasons crossed that path
more faithfully than you ever did