The rebellion of the sorrow in a cave, temptress on walls and a blade to succumb too.
Let’s drill deep, further seep, into the shell. So safe so dark so at home why won’t the edges blur? Why won’t the world melt?
Scratches along the walls, the wolf behind this cage. How shallow seems the sand and how horridly the edges peel away.
You can’t hear him howling, nor can you feel his pain. You can only stare at the ferocious creature. So tamed by his own rage.
Writhing in my own monstrosity, I envelope in the arms of heartache, Fuming I curl helpless, bleeding on my own page.
The wolf peering at me through the mirror. Is it me I should be afraid of? Or is it the human face that hides the monster?
Stalk slow, Die slow. A tyrant stirs, Resilient every feeling so crippled. It’s my wake, your memory and the their ripples. . .
So engulfed in your wrath that you spill from your bones. Blood to dry your tears. Hope to slaughter love. Laugh you sinner.
Jeer while you can, the tides may turn and the caves may light up. Hope lies in shadows of fears, dare to love and fear to breathe
Blithering wind. Scorching warmth. Are you not frightened of the agonizing, terrorizing nothingness? Your soul withers.
My soul withers where wombs lay bare, as pure as sin and half as fair. Stones unturned and sorrow I’ve had my share.
Yet I smile with my life laid bare. At your feet. Where you kick and curse. Sweet.
I scream everything down, the caves painted grey and love burnt for warmth. Hide…hide…hide.
~ By Varun Chakravarty & Mitchelle Rozario Jansen
Checkout Varun’s other works on http://stateofmaroon.wordpress.com/
You’re so beautiful.
And you deserve so much better.
And even though I miss you,
I’m happy for you and this new life you’ve chosen.
But I’m selfish and sad.
And you being beautiful just makes it all the more insufferable.
Why do you have to be so beautiful?
Sometimes all you need is for someone to understand you.
For someone to overlook the inequities and embrace the flaws.
For someone to let you scrape your knee and let the tears roll by.
Sit with you, laughing, when you’ve fallen, face down, in a muddy puddle.
Clap, when you’re on stage terribly nervous.
Hug you when you want to be left alone.
Walks in your shoes instead of judging you,
But never lets your selfishness go unnoticed
Holds your hand through the proverbial storm
Sticks a foot in the door when you’re closing them out
Gifts you a book, knowing you’ll probably end up weeping all night reading it,
Knowing also, that the gesture would brighten your heart
Sometimes you wish you weren’t loved.
A dear friend of mine said once, “You’ve got a man’s hand” At first I took offence, but then there was some truth in what he said. Here’s my thought out response to him.
Even as a child, when others played with dolls, she let her palms run through the mud.
When she grew a little older, she had the confectioner’s hands. The bakers palm, all sweaty, black, full of dirt.
They were the same hands that picked bags, Bags twice the weight of herself. She had a boy’s hand, all rough.
But these aren’t really the reason behind her coarse palms.
These are insignificant. Negligible moments told.
She had a man’s hand, because too fast she had to grow.
Because only a man’s hand, could stop the blow.