It

She was there, standing,
an impressive apparition, crying
no, her shadow was crying
beckoning my dark dreams
darker than tar, or night
a starless night

Just Questions

Who am I?
What is I composed of?
Breath?
A beating heart?
Who am I exactly?
Like if I ceased to exist today,
Would you say you knew I?
What wouldn't you say say
That I was lazy, sometimes or all of the time
That I loved shallowly, like he was just the
shallowest lover I ever met
That I believed in the living God,
or didn't believe in his messengers

Who am I in relation to you?
Your breath
Your loving
Your sentimentalities

Who am I?

The Non-mood

A juncture,
A place or whatever,
Just a time, a blot of time
A dot of a thought
Weaving through the mind
Of nothingness
A struggle to assign a mood
Is it
boredom?
Anger?
Hunger?
Brokeness?
Or the feeling of being a complete idiot
Oh! It is the blocked toilet

Boredom

Don't you wish boredom was a person,
A person you would have the pleasure of
not liking them
And telling them so, perhaps pinching their nose
Once in a while while in your sick perverted experiments
It would be fun, wouldn't it?
Because of that you'd stop being bored
And boredom would never want to be in your presence
Not until it goes to medical school
Becomes a surgeon
Then you'd gladly be in it's presence
Begging without saying a word
To save you
But if it's vengeful, it will remember the day you bullied it
And may derive pleasure in surgically cutting you to death
And you will have died of boredom
That's what your lifeless body will tell the pathologist

Bothersome Girl

There was something weird,

The curves on voluptuous behind,

A behind trapped in a tight red dress,

There was something hideous,

Devilish in some attractive way,

About the way she smiled

She appeared a story,

With a thousand plot lines

None ever advancing the story

She had a thousand plans,

Yet sat her bum lazily,

Her mind rapidly churning plans

She is attractively unattractive,

There is something about her person,

That spells ‘she is a devil incarnate’

She Shot Herself

She stood there pointing a gun at her assailant with such menace that could have boiled githeri for an entire four-stream high school full of hungry and adolescent boys. She had killed her husband, and as she put, took her life in the way only women who’ve lost their husbands can tell.

‘You don’t know how long I have spent dreaming of this day,’ she tells her assailant, who had burgled her way into her house. ‘I have dreamt that you’d show up so that I can have the pleasure of killing you one more time.’

The killer lady looks at her with those looks that tell you that she’s not going get even a single inch size bruise on her body. She’s also pointing a gun at the good lady, a teacher of languages. It could have been better, you think, if it had been those asshole mathematics and science teachers who made those subjects harder than they should have been. But no, on top of killing her husband, she is pointing a gun at her, a blameless soul, a soul that just wants to teach students about rhymes, and onomatopoeia. And  oral literature.

The conversation goes back and forth between the two ladies for a tad longer than you expect. She is here. She killed your husband. What more reason can you have to pull that trigger? Then she suddenly puts the gun at the base of her chin and pulls the trigger. She sprawls carelessly on the floor. She is dead.

It’s a movie anyway. That’s how you convince yourself. She couldn’t have done so in real life. It simply is impossible to wait for such long for someone who killed your husband, only to give her the luxury of triumph by committing suicide. The writer of the scene was a sick bastard who does not understand how the real works. You kind of liked the lady, her Russian accent was out of this world. You have a thing with accent, learn. It is not a bad way to conclude a year, you think.

But then the killer lady is the lead villain in the movie series. She dies and the story comes to an end. But at least the writer should have found a way of keeping her alive. She should have been captured and even tortured. You could tolerate her screams, knowing that she alive. Only her face, and butt should be interfered with. And her hands, and legs, and boobs…gosh…she should just have been left alone. Intact is how you wanted her to be. WHOLE. You are a whole kind of person. You have a fetish for anatomically complete people. Wasn’t killing her husband more than enough.  

Sometimes

Sometimes, at times…just one time

Step out of your skin and watch yourself

Listen to yourself really hard

Study yourself as if preparing for an exam

You may figure out why people treat

They way they do.

Not because they are bad or good people

But because you are who are