April Fool

Fractures in my leg, worries in your eyes
Faith of our feelings, dubiety in disguise.
"Meet me by the mosque, I'm back in town"
Early summer morning, just to let you down.

Fickle heart, sketching her life to amend,
Clueless of time, the start and the end.
Twisting your mind, evading hints to avoid
Sleepless midnight hours, seeing you get annoyed.

Witty thumbs on the shovel, grinning teeth on the call,
Insomniac immersed eyeballs, bouncing when you fall.
Bite around the bush, not to let you cut to chase,
Silly feeble lips, smiling at blank space.

And all I'd ever do was boiling tamarind seeds
To poke you into some subliminal false leads,
Just to see you put ice cubes in poison slime
To push me to being a fool for a lifetime.

Invisible Incomplete

When you finally divulged your deceit,
You fueled the fire of an anterior defeat
Entirely. 

No wonder why the fragrance of your skin
And the feeling of your soul
Faded from the face of my startled pride
Flouting through the falsity of your swindle.
All the figures of our speech would squander,
But the filth of your shadowed truth.
The fickleness of my solicitous heart
Begs forgiveness to the sanity,
To the frown of my surreal mind.
How the fragility of my self esteem
Made a fool of my self.

How the invisibility of your thoughts,
How the inaudibility of my words
Plunder the drums of your ears
And blunder the vision of my tears?

Invisible, my dear.
Did you ever disappear? 
Did I become too blind to see you?
Or did you darken the room instead?
I never blinked, my eyes wide open,
I'd ring doorbells to oblivion.
You did answer my desolation,
Singing me lullabies to nightmares, but
Was it the best you could to humiliate my humility? 

Beach, Beauty and Beats

A montage depicting the fun we had in the TFPS Beach Trip.

An Old Purse

An old purse sprawled by the clock Tick Tock, a barred blade unlike the tireless hands With mere dust flakes on my dial to puff. It's tough, a withered flux to repel the vexing away, With an empathetic moist stick in the middle to talk. A lock, keyed in but too dubious to crack With a clumsy name on its frown, blundered in the dark. "Embark," the pen idle from ages, Says with pounds of blood lying under its beak. "Speak"; the restless smudges on my lens Would sneeze every drop of tear but hope. Cope, and I would put them off, semi-wrapped Swallowing every blue gut painted on my wall. After all, the alluring, asserting voice from the black Would love to smear my despair with her charades of love.

Something that I wrote last September, the last lines telling why I could never complete it till now.

The Intrusion

Pluvioso Melancolia

Butter Feet & Peanut Massages