Poetry

song lyrics & minor poems

Henceforth, I seldom repose in it

Paper under my wrists
Be still
Allow me to stab you with my quill
Scratch your skin
And pour my blood-stained ink

Paper under my wrists
I apologise
My imploring glance embodies the eroticism of pain
I am deep in the dark of frustration
Where all that glitters is tears

My lips and tongue
Numbed with futility
A ventriloquist, a voice discarded
But my hands were built prolific
Fountains of plaint

I was given this potter’s wheel
To mould my grief out of flesh-clay
And formed my body out of grief
My craft glows blue
For pain was made to endure

Writing is (just) an assemblage of words
This I tend to forget
One more disappointment
Thrown into that reliquary
Someone, flippantly, named heart