I’m Sorry

I’m Sorry

 

Too many times, I have uttered those words.

Too many times have I muttered all I could.

I do not know what to do, what words to say;

I merely cough up what I can.

I laugh at myself; what am I even?

Worthless and usurped of all sanity,

I am no longer what I used to be.

Without reason, my hands shake.

I am at the verge of giving up.

Those people I have ridiculed for so long,

I now understand why they did so.

Perhaps I understood since before,

But I did not want to accept the fact.

My heart races without caffeine or excitement;

My once smiling face lost its glow.

I no longer care for the world.

I hurt myself but I feel nothing,

A liar I was, I lied that I was alright.

I wish the phlegm I cough up every second

To be blood that I cannot redeem.

Eating has become a chore without purpose.

My dear father and mother, you wonder,

Why I have degraded so, always retreating.

Now you know the reason, I fail.

I am a failure you have conjured up.

Scorn me as you have done always,

Ridicule me and diminish me,

I accept and deserve all that.

I do not blame you, father and mother,

Just wish I could have been a better son.

Sweat is the only thing produced

Through such a degenerate such as I.

I know I am not a proud thing to show,

But know that I have tried.

I tried my best.

Sonnet

Sonnet

 

Perhaps all these may seem inadequate,

I long to have a place among your thoughts.

And in these mightiest of bonds and states,

One might seem easy to create wrong knots.

Though petite as you seem, your beauty fills

The sights sore for all who deem them worthless.

Alas, I feel the wrath of God who thrills

The mightiest among us; smiles mirthless.

I go insane; enough to keep my death.

What have you done to me; you sweet angel?

Shun me away, go away from me, meth!

Worry your fate, you evil archangel!

I am lost, I have lost my sight, accursed.

Lusting for you, comes I, the devil cursed.

A Black Dog in a Cemetery

A Black Dog in a Cemetery

 

See a black dog in a cemetery;

It hops around with its tail hanging low.

It sees the names of those that we bury,

And ignores the beings living ago.

See the family mourning for someone;

On a bright sunny day, cloudless as such,

A black dog shines in radiance of suns,

With its tongue out, susceptible to touch.

A black dog licks the tombstone, of no one;

It pees on the graves of those lived and dead.

Flies roam around the ashes clearly won,

A black dog spreads and shreds the ones who bred.

Young and old, we see the black dog in us;

Young and old, we breed the black dog and cuss.

The Scorching Sun

The Scorching Sun

 

The sun whips on the backs of men and women.

The snowy grounds pile with sweats

Of years gone unnoticed by the demons

That created the Creator in a bet.

 

Birds fly high up in the sky,

Just beside the planes that soar the winds.

A doctor cries in the air, for a seat he tried,

That wrought pain, whipped and skinned.

 

The High King of yellow bellowed,

“A great fortress shall erect upon my being!”

The impoverish men betrayed by their fellow,

Save those souls thought freed.

 

A star shone bright, after its combustion;

The perished and the abducted land arrived,

Set up a tent, yet still gods abduct.

Killed in millions, yet revived.

 

For generations, being killed beings,

Unlike all beings that exist on Earth.

For till when shall we persist in fleeing,

When all were born through same births?

Cradle of Days

Cradle of Days

 

As a baby lies in a cradle,

Waiting for its mother do what she is able,

The sunlight shines on the baby’s forehead

And makes amends to day’s end.

The cold breeze from the unbroken windows

Bellows like hurricanes beside its pillows.

Clouds shun away from the scene

As though cowardice has crime seen.

Indistinguishable is the shape of the light

That so chose the baby’s forehead as mine;

The cradle rocks back and forth,

Despite the raging storms of North.

The mother does not notice her throne

Bring usurped under such clones.

The father sees none under his brows,

For none escapes his inattention except arouse.

The sunlight of days gone and to come,

The hurricanes of skins numb,

Do shape the inevitable time of the baby.

Clear as day, its future, maybe.

Light shines bright, yet no one sees;

The bickering plight that waits for thee.

An Old House

An Old House

 

 

I lived in an old house,

Tattered and cracked,

With grass sprouting from within,

And bugs and birds flew everywhere.

 

A family of four, we lived,

The humidity made us suffer,

An old house was not able to

Protect us from the heat.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down.

After all these years of suffering,

It’s finally coming down.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down on us,

Times have been harsh and

We’ve endured long.

 

My mother used to tell me,

Wait, I don’t think she ever did.

My father used to tell me,

He was always out working.

 

My poor little brother and I

Stayed home and played guitar.

We saw one morning

Some cracks on the walls.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down.

After all these years of suffering,

It’s finally coming down.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down on us,

Times have been harsh and

We’ve endured long.

 

Oh, these faithless days,

Those dark, dark days,

Alone in a shelter

That fell into cracks.

 

Two young boys

Submerged in the times

Of how we’ve become

And will become.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down.

After all these years of suffering,

It’s finally coming down.

 

It’s coming down,

It’s coming down on us,

Times have been harsh and

We’ve endured long.

 

Times have been harsh

But times will be harder.

 

Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

 

One asked, “Will the circle be unbroken?”

I do not know.

Not a circle, but a square,

Nevertheless, broken and broken still.

Such a seclusion calls for a circle

Boundless by time and shapes.

Such unbroken vowels resonate within;

The circle of truth and reactions

Unbound by Love.

I do not know.

Circles are never meant to be broken.

Broken circles mend, perhaps, but

Never a circle in the end.

Jaunty and jagged are the lives

Of those striving to survive.

Of families so struggling in families,

We care not of their lives.

I crave for the circle,

Of that we cannot encircle.

Will the circle be unbroken?

No, it will not.

Poems

Poems

 

Poets are everywhere, and yet nowhere.

They may be bus drivers, teachers,

Salesmen, architects, or any flare,

Exist in harmony we all reach Her.

Her, the inevitable Being of poetry,

Sultry in its impiousness, She scatters

The minds and hearts of vicinity.

Such vocabulary exists in matter.

What matters more than

The existence of such people;

Undiscernible from nature, words planned

East, West, South, North, forming ripples.

Such displays of ultimacy

Reflects the juxtaposition of metaphors

Ingrained in lives so loved profoundly

That blossoms the host of matadors.

Some may disregard their religion,

Some may scorn the faithful and humbled.

Since soar the pride of beings that listen.

So lest faith finds, poetry tumbled.

Lost, are we? Perhaps, perhaps we

Not only have lost, but stained

The very thing we kept clean

And pure. We lost the rhyme.

Until the very words that guided

The likes of poets and lovers,

Shall love live long, lest lost love lied.

Pledge not to works but words covered.

Intellectuality

Intellectuality

 

What seems to be a gift, seems to be a fault.

To fairly criticize the public in the eyes of those

That deem themselves pure and innocent,

To arm against sins prevailing seems

To be the sin itself of worlds esteemed.

Understand not, the likes of those bewitched

By beauties rectified and portrayed insolently,

By torments of perils that comets effaced.

The apple has fallen far from the tree,

And yet the tree has moved away from the apple.

Surely Adam was condemned through intellect,

Wherefore the tree was there since time?

Serpents provided the intellect

That serpents despise so now.

The pyramids of life altered with falsehood.

Criticized are the critics and lowly mobs surfaced.

A bit of the apple caused “peril”.

Perilous are we to think?

Evanescent are the times of dark,

Yet persuaded are we of the dark as light.

The Messiah has a religion after Him;

Who has dared to do so in recent times?

Debatable are the intellects that crucify

Those that are debating against the world.

All by themselves; the world torments

Those who crave for an atom of the apple.

Whoever shall partake in synthesis

Of mankind’s photosynthesis amidst the abyss?

Medicinal Taste

Medicinal Taste

 

My mouth still tastes of bitter-sour medicine;

Tongue-tied with bitterness untouched,

Body smitten with lazy corrosion of age.

Age, I feel, weighs on all,

Though to some, weighs more than all.

Joints creak to ointments of technology,

Grounds shake due to paraphrases of imminent.

For some, a relief through time and space,

For others, a destiny un-destined for space-time.

My mouth still tastes of bitter-sour medicine;

Bitter as it may be, sour it may seem,

The kingdom of Trojan might seem evident

If taken lightly through lips of sick.

A blister forms on my lips,

Much like the furniture set in Heaven.

We not know the casualties of medicine.