Wednesday, 28 December 2011

If I should have a daughter.

If I should have a daughter
I'd call her Glory or Faith or Truth
And tell her, Baby, this is what I want from you
I want you to hold your head up high
Like you're a gem
Like you're the sun
Like you're the brightest star in the night sky
So Baby, I'd say
And shed listen with gleaming eyes
I'd say I want you to be wise 
And always follow your heart
And follow your dreams 
And never let them pull you apart
And persevere and push and hold on just a second longer
Cuz Baby, what won't destroy you, 
Will only make you stronger. 
And she'd nod her head patiently 
Absorbing all o' my words 
Like a sponge soaks up water 
But my daughter,  will not be weighed down by em
Instead she'd spread her wings 
And soar like I never could
She'd live the dream that I probably have would 
If only.. 
If only I wasn't for sale and If I wasn't bought 
If I wasn't left in this hell to rot
If I had fought and 
If I had not 
Fallen into his plot
A swollen belly wouldn't be the only thing I'd have got
But it's the first hope in  years 
After tears and fears and glares and flame and game and an utter lot of shame... 
I fear, though 
That she might inherit my fate
But then I slap myself and say 
No, she will be brave
She will fight, she will win
She would not bend 
She'd struggle with pride and she'd strive
Because when all fails and crumbles and comes to an end
It's Glory, it's Faith, it's Truth that survives.  

Thursday, 15 December 2011

The last goodbye.

In a dark corner
She sits and weeps
She just stares at her feet
Doesn’t talk
Doesn’t sleep
Her tears wet her face
They run down her cheek
That’s all she’s done
Since last week.

She shuts her eyes tight
When she thinks of his face
His comforting embrace
Those bright, lively eyes
That winning smile
How charming he had been
When she was seventeen.

He had promised to be loyal
He was faithful all along
She still wonders where she went wrong
Was it the new biscuits?
Or was his leash too tight?
Or did his flea- rash get worse?
Or was he cold all night?

Her fingers dig into her flesh
She tries to hide
Her pain but its useless
 to deny
Wilbur had left
Said his final goodbye
She’d have to accept
Her favourite puppy had died.


Envy is purple; the purple of swollen bruises.
It pricks, it tugs and it punches holes in your conscience.
Envy is that sour taste in your mouth when you see him with the most popular while you sit on the bench in the corner.
To envy is to want to switch shoes; or at least, to see her in extremely uncomfortable stilettos.
To envy is to want him to cry out of helplessness, to feel your boot smother his pride and to feel yourself above him.
Envy tastes of lemons—the green, sour ones—that make your taste-buds go gaga; the one you’d love you’d love to squeeze over her fresh, bleeding wounds and feed on her pain.  

Wednesday, 14 December 2011


What is more painful? Extreme noise or excruciating silence; or the bite of a snake; or the cracking of a rib? Or, perhaps, being helpless, alone and, yet, alive.

Every crunch of the leaves under my feet sent an echo that only I could hear before it, too, drowned into the night like my unheard screams. I was out of strength, hope, adrenaline and water. But something kept me trudging through that place where I wouldn’t send my worse enemy to.

The dense air that enveloped me reeked of rotting moss and flesh- human flesh- and it pushed at my bleak chest, suffocating me with every passing minute…
The icy breeze, that I would have loved while on my terrace at home, felt like knives against my cheeks, freezing my jaws. However, it seemed a little more welcoming than the howling of seemingly hungry hounds, whose howl made my throat drier than it already was.

The vast landscape was nothing but loose, eroded earth; the only adornment being scattered mounds of earth and shrub that dotted the area. The only piece of greenery other than the moss covering scattered bits of bone was a huge Banyan. In the eerie moonlight, it caste a shadow four times its own radius. Its trunk was green with decay and branches, spread out like a witch’s skinny arms. The gigantic figure leaned threateningly over me, leaning to a side. Its steel-like roots snaked in and out of the ground and stretched as far as the thick canopy did. Vines that came all the way to the ground hung like ropes that could come into life and strangle you to an agonizing death. A strange- almost supernatural- mist swirled in its boundary. With its distinct hue, it was almost enchanting.

An owl, as golden as my hair, was perched upon a piece of pale bone about ten yards from me. Its eyes, milky white, shone in the moonlight. Its claws were tight around the round, sculpted bone. The obvious realization came to me a little late. I stepped back with my eyes still on the skull and tripped on another. I cringed in horror and took refuge on a mound of mud similar to the dozens of others around. Ofcourse, mine had a different name. It was called Katherine McAfee, 1972.

The sunset? Or a mere reflection of my own life...

Have you ever noticed that hair-thin, black line on the horizon?
I never did either, until today. I had noticed the white sand reflect the sun’s rays. I had felt the water kiss my toes and shy away. I had felt the wind stir up melodies to which the gulls danced. Today, however, the horizon has my attention. It’s vivid, it’s defined—yet, it’s untouchable.

The expanse of graphite or deep Malva, as Rochelle put it, boasts great strength, vim and spirit. Like a raging beast it charges towards me, but merely strokes my feet with a frothy blanket. It’s like the storm within me once; full of anger, pride and argour. Who knew that my fate was like the water’s; that after years of struggle I, too, would be as enervated as a tide on the shore.

The water is calm today. All I hear is the distant slosh of waves, the cry of a few gulls and from somewhere inside me, resonant silence. I’m amazed how much the ocean and I have in common. Of course, the only exception is that the ocean is home to billions, where I myself am homeless. Lost. Rejected.

The sun castes almost fluorescent rays of crimson that travel all the way to me, casting the spotlight I never got—or deserved—as they said. My eyes follow the golden trail the sun has laid for me, inviting me to it…
No, I’ve burnt enough. I’d rather not walk it.

By now, the sun itself is defeated. I feel better knowing that I’m not the only sinking, grieving and descending into a Stygian death. Nevertheless, I’m jealous. The fireball has everything I don’t; fame, respect, notoriety and life. It will rise again with energy and vitality where I will immerse into the gloom of these murky waters.

It’s hard to ignore the sky in the background. The backdrop is painted in lively shades of yellow and peach where it meets the water and merges into strands of purple of the thin veins on my hands in winters. It finally opens into that blue everyone associates with hope and peace and freedom. Don’t you think it’s the most haunting of all colours? It’s empty, it’s hollow and it’s intimidating. It’s the sad colour of dismay, betrayal and of a lingering threat behind a beauty.
Rochelle sure looked beautiful in that colour.

Soon, it will be dark.
Soon, the sun will surrender to death, and so will I.