Sorrows

At noon, one day,

He rose and went away,

With a handful shovel

To bury sorrows in a well

Days flew past, quick,

Like death on a body, weak,

From the ravages of disease

But sorrows don’t die with ease

He swung his sharpened sword,

Slashed sorrow in the head, yet a wad,

A wad of cash gushed blood

From the severe wounds

Day after day, head paining

From the numerous battles

Some when it was raining

Celebrating nothing, he lifted bottles

Fire and Brimstone

Think of fire and brimstone,

Smoldering with vengeance,

Consuming sinners, eternally

You, a sinner, gnashing teeth,

Regretting your earthy choices

But then look at life here,

The most pleasurable things are sin,

If not covered in the bible, it is illegal

What life did God intend us to lead surely.

But then look at people entrusted leadership

They’ve taken fronts in the theatre of sindom

As if they stumbled upon a secret

An age old secret that tells them religion is scum

To a prostitute, weighing options

What’s the greatest sin

Hawking flesh or let the kids starve

She is blameless in the eyes of the well-fed children

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’