My bike got stolen recently
At first I was pretty bummed out about it
But then I filled out a police form decently
For there was no other way around it
And then I printed out pictures patiently
Somebody might have seen it, could have found it
There aren’t many bikes like mine so, naturally
It’s easier to find than by the sound of it
Trying to think about it rationally
It shouldn’t be too far, so I could scout for it
And even if the odds are there just fictionally
When there’s a chance to win, then I should count it.
Should still be able to retrieve it, actually
And when I do—Carpe birotam!—I shall shout it!
Should I still fail, then even fractionally
Enhance my chance I did, there is no doubt of it.
I’m not accustomed to
Become a loser
I’m not prepared to
And when I do, like a dead leaf
A battered shrub
I now resemble
My body whole is
Filled with failure
Now just a fracture
My once hot blood
Sends me cold shivers
Where have they gone
My grand endeavours
And, worst of all, I had
Out of all people, I
And then ran back to you
For you to save me
From my blame
The lights go out one by one
The day has dawned on everyone-
The night owls though return to sleep
Where daily pleasures they do keep
Whilst the round sun doth brightly shine
In wildest dreams their thoughts entwine
Till twilight dawns, and minds enmeshed
They wake up rested and refreshed
I went inside a magic bus
And sat down on a lily
The fragrance was so luscious but
The seat was somewhat chilly
My mind was filled with daffodils
And I felt somewhat silly
For there amidst the petals rose
I met a man named Billy
He looked at me and I at him
He offered me a smile
His words smelt like a baby’s breath
We chatted for a while
He urged me to forget him not
And spoke with such great guile
That I could swear on bergamot
That this man had a style
But then the bluebells faded out
And Billy disappeared
My buttercup turned to a corpse
And that’s what I most feared
Yet bees were buzzing in the crowd
And all the birds still cheered
So I stepped out the magic bus
Before it got too weird
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Not everything is perfect.
Such are the words uttered by a perfectionist
Who consoles themselves after another defeat
Blindly believing that SOMETHING, something CAN be perfect
Constantly seeking to find that perfection
Someday, someplace, somehow.
Nothing is perfect.
Perfection as a word, as an abstract entity
Is in itself a perfection.
It presupposes that there are perfect things—
Yet, like all perfections, it has a flaw
Because perfections do not exist.
Everything makes perfect sense this way.
Devoid of reasons to write
All in poet’s mind becomes white
An eye, without the black of the iris
It spreads and submits like a virus
The poet seeks measures to fight
Reads books during long, sleepless nights
But the pages, so pleasantly written
With a haunting whiteness are smitten
The poet observes a beautiful landscape
Looking hard for a route to escape
But finds none. For the land is all covered with snow
The chances of fleeing are low.
In worthless attempts to conquer a page
Her frustrated mind succumbs to rage
The shells of poet’s persona crack
Of space and time she loses all track
And she knows, there is no coming back
When the paper’s all black.
When the paper’s all black.
I have changed
I don’t know if it’s for the better
But it sure is something new
Like a warm shower
After a long day—
Not all people have showers
So I am priviledged.
An axe behind my back — don’t really hide it
It just feels silly carrying it in such plain sight —
I ring the doorbell, hi, I’m here to kill you
But don’t you dare give up without a fight!
Come in, come in, she smiles, been waiting
Her fingers slightly nervous as she closes the door
You’d like some coffee, tea, no thanks
I’m in some rush, so let’s get down to the floor
Right, right, she hesitates a bit,
Some of her memories seem to linger on
With a deep sigh she reaches for a bottle
A mighty gulp of liquor helps her carry on
Let us not tarry then; she lies down quickly
And spreads her limbs. Her eyes now close
Breasts rising gently, soon to fall down again
Readying my axe, I strike a pose…
But I can’t strike. I can’t.
It’s just some fiction…
Why does my heart feel such unearthly friction??
I set my pen aside. Bury my face in hands.
Some thoughts need not be written, but stay in foreign lands…
Inspired by Dan Salvato.
A ghost approaches you. A cute ghost.
Possesses you—now you’re the host.
You rampage on a killing spree
Barking about at every tree
This was the moment
You loved most.