Change that manTurn him into someone else—We didn’t like the first guy anyway.He smiled too wideLooked too happy.Wipe that grin from his face,Okay, let him keep half of it.We aren’t monsters—But let’s make him one. Bulge his eyes,Burn his ears,Slap his cheek so hardIt rings
It’s okay sometimesTo show your tears,Know your tears,And the place they come from.It is what makes youWhat you are.How long do you planTo rest in a bottle?Let everything outSmash it to pieces— Fall to the groundMake a mess,Vent it all out.Your boat is caught in a
A torrent of tormentWhen it passes through life,It leaves behind a rare calm,For you to gather the piecesAfter the storm.The drumming and howlingOf last nightHave died down,Along with your hopesFor the familiar sun.The wind has droppedIts gears of introspection,To count your deadAnd find the breathing.Go!
Ticking clock,Loud breath,Heartbeats,Wet eyesStare at the door to open,Waiting for my saviourTo emergeAnd save me from –An empty room of solitude,And a heart ache.What’s a few more days,When you have waited a lifetime?Every hourGrieves your painful absence,And curses the time spent without you.These empty arms
An old man walks with his experienceAnd his adorable paunch, With an ailment in his pocket,A newspaper ‘neath his arm. Keen eyes for the steps ahead,Not so much for the drunken path, Chained to the table of time,Where he finds his daily bread, A life
A family of clothesHanging out in the sun,Taking in all the light,With it, the delightAnd the warmth of kinship.Unclipped for freedom,Jiving to the tunes of the wind,Rising and fallingWith the ocean waves. Failed to noticeA gust of wind,Blowing a shirt downWhere it lies with the
This body might’ve embraced many,But nothing compares to your warm caress,All the cells in my body affirm,They sing love songs of yoreWhose tremors are felt underneath the layersRight where the soul lurks –It feels at peaceThat it often forgets exists,Every organ prepares to mergeTo unite
When a flower wilts,It hurts the bee,So does it bother the thirsty,When the last drop of the river dries,Oars are no longer worthy,Does the boat forget its journey?Does the plant remember its child?Or the bee forgets to rueThe loss of a good thing in its
I often miss our communication,When we would speak so muchThat the world would evanesce,When we would hold each other’s gazeFor so longIt would unveil our longingTo be with each otherSo closeThat our breaths would mingleAnd fail to make out Yours from mine.What’s mine is yours,What’s
Why I hate to fightIs not the hurt,It is actually the aftermathWhen she pulls herself under a shellAnd struggles to trust me again.I was a monsterSome unfortunate minutes ago,It is so difficult to convinceThat I am not the same man,I was merely at my lowest