How would you rather have me?Between the words of a meterOr in a misshapen form.Fighting a war with syllablesOr ridden with adjectivesWith allusions galore.Do you like me in a rhyme?Or prefer me not in a noteTo a metrical song.Do you want to sell me?In the
There is a villain in my house, He has murdered conscience And hid its body in the attic. He steals right under my nose, Honest money and truthful notes, And saves malice for those Who try to race him to the finish line. He eats
I am only a moment awayFrom disappearing into my life,Never to return again,Despite who dares to cry.My wilderness of sorrowCalls me every night,And wishes to keep me companyInside its cold heart.I breathe on gloomAs if it were my fuel,And I can’t be happy all the
My, my! What a life! What a life! Bred to breathe A moment, It passes by In a shuteye, And then I realize I am picked up To be ground In a machine Yet again; Did I not just die? Why repeat the cycle again,
Not hard to make a poet cry, He is already about emotions. Tears race inside his soul To find the outlet of expression. He can already see With his keen eyes, The pointlessness of the thing you hold dear, How when you tighten up your
You did not get me, You do not get me, That’s how it is. I am a riddle To your hunt, And I sit here with answers To questions I am yet to face, With a confidence you can’t efface. I will pay you, If
Consumed, Confused, I lie awake, My life’s at stake, I am back to ground zero. They say there’s no hero; I tried to be one, Son of a gun! They are all blind! My eyes couldn’t find Hope to keep me up at night, Or
I feel nothing, nada, When I browse through all the faces in my time. Sunny ones, smiling kinds, contented minds, Adventures hide inside their green eyes. People are strangers without their thin masks; They wear them to pose a split second sign To create an idea
City lights, You have drowned all my stars! Can I hate you more for Painting over my canvas? The quiet time of the lovers, Who used to prod for answers in the vast Had a world to explore; You have smeared it with your din.
Reminiscing isn’t a day’s work. You get that when you see a cadence of poetry caught between its whopping 200 leaflets. They speak of love lost, sing songs of tragedy, of a broken heart that claims to have reconciled but clearly hasn’t. There are years