Collateral - A Chess game

A knight, shining armor, a mirror to a pawn right in front—
Short, stuck, a reflecting cage.
A path unseen, but open to a bishop or a queen:
The simplest piece, not worth being killed,
Not a part of the set, just collateral,
Until a last square,
You turn, an anomaly, when they see.
But you are still a queen to protect the king of disability—
Eight squares and the keys to "his majesty."
Can't kill under pressure, oh no;
To be saved, a damsel in distress shielded by the queen who pays.
The whole board is a sacrifice for a castle,
Disassembled, when a rook cannot think straight and jumps to save.
No rules for a king.
The bishop can't look in the eye, he goes diagonally.
A chess game: good old bureaucracy.

A Story- Moonlight Myth

Moonlight, a wonderful time.
Crickets squirm with melody to a haunted soul.
Start from the office steps: no car.
A brain with headlines bought every day—no peace.
They run behind eyes, watchful, a flashlight.
Should have dressed like a boy, a thought;
Maybe a moustache would deter, or a disability.
A crooked look enters the face,
Now looking like plastic surgery under romantic streetlights and benches.
You round the park, hands hold pepper spray for easy access—
Excess for a nightmare, perfect for imagination, or so will the badges say.
One more block to go.
In the lovely moonlight,
Your heart sways.

Erasure - Remember An Answer

A paper in front asks for water—the ruled drought.
With a ticking bomb, the pen moves, not in sync with lines.
Calculator idle; no values to give.
You sum a pass: enough to be run, not to be in the race.
A rat race.
Water funneled and puked onto paper.
You love your body? You can't.
Your memory needs emotions to hold symbols;
So it leaks, and you slip into darkness.
Weak, a spectacle now, but no one to see—
Not during a race; horse blinders don't slip.
A goal in mind: remember and memorise.

Fantasy - A Cotton Candy Dream

TW: Mental health themes, references to self-harm.

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Fantasies are cuddly and sweet, no matter the daggers or dragons you meet.
Look you in the eye and fall to your sleep,
Eyes closed, the orange turns black.
You see, but not.
A fantasy alive, a monster under your bed.
You ran out.
A pill for your fantasy: white, peach, and pale Burgundy.
Your tongue matches the curtains: split and cream.
Fantasy stars dance around your head, red and blue,
A gun near your lampstand—
Cotton candy, you're hungry—
You've taken a bite, a press—
No money, no tombstone, no friend for a eulogy,
Wander a spirit, forever in fantasy, uncontrollable, unpredictable,
Six feet under, now you can't leave,
A nightmare come true, welcome to your fantasy.

Tranquility - A March

Padded feet cover ground, soothing the marshes,
peacefully efficient.
Stripes cover cheeks, harmonious with the forage,
hiding a smile as serene as the forest floor
when the silencer is used—
a muffle for the small, triumphant victories
of a tranquil homeland,
undisturbed by the friction of emotion.
The weight of the hush follows us into payphone booths,
through scoured headlines and craters left for truth.
We are baked like dough in the heat of stolen air,
a suffocated youth, rising in the dark.
Eyes are kept open until they are forced closed,
the mind wandering until the spirit is shaken loose.
Now, only one goal remains in sight:
To destroy the enemy.
All is tranquil, and quiet indeed.

Fool - A Song

Am I a fool to tap the rhythm of this song?
A fool to play along
to the frantic pulse of the young?
To dance these steps, predesigned,
for a fool, by a fool—
rigid, unbending, and blind.
The music is deaf to the pain,
a choreography that wears the skeleton thin.
I wear a smile to please the wagging tongues,
while the dance grinds my bones to dust.
To finally rest,
oblivious to the best of them.
But I will be called a fool.

Deal- A Child's Plea

Will you make a deal,
A pinky promise at least,
That when I grow up and become a beast,
You will save my dream.
My dream to find the pot of gold,
Riding a big puppy
To the end of the biggest rainbow—
To use that gold to feed the man at the stop,
And give him a new board to replace the old.
And mittens,
so his hands don't have to be so cold.
Will you make a deal?

Independent - An Anthem

I am independent,
I have a screen, that shines 12 hours a day,
Spitting money out like an atm,
Money that comes from another's pay.
I am independent,
I have a broom,
that the servant swings,
every morning in my room.
I am independent
I track the route to the hotel on a map,
While I sit in a cab,
Clutching car keys.
I am independent, don't you see?

Mortal - A Boon

"To err is human," mortal—
Is expected perfection supernatural?
Am I allowed to fail, to falter,
to let the eyes cloud and water
when I mourn?
To speak of the thorns?
Lies.
I should smile and please,
all day, appease.
Not brokenhearted,
not happy—
just immaculately routine.
A ghost of the machine.
An object, just to be seen.
A mortal?
A wish.
A fantasy.

Runic - An Old Saying

I call him Runic.
Clothed in a heavy, archaic tunic, he repeats: "Communication is the key."
I am certain he knows every hollow analogy.
He never cooks. He is never clean.
He says, "You should learn from me," while I watch from the safety of polo and jeans.
He says, "Even crumbled pants are better."
He swore he was a better man than me—
Eventually,
he cooped himself inside the hat of a Mad Hatter.
A mind too crowded with itself, tilted slightly off reality.
I almost joined him, his state, emotionally.
I know now: he always belonged on the streets— now he works in finance.
Glass towers reflecting nothing personal. Numbers replacing memory.
Still trying to establish balance, as if balance could erase origin.
Wearing jeans as defiance—but it reads like costume, not rebellion.
No one will ever know his past.
It will stay runic— scratched into a language, extinct, except for the mark on me.

Pride - A bit too dry

A wet clay tea set
has the pride of a prodigal.
He looks ready—
stiffening in the sun,
mimicking a strength he hasn't earned.
He mistakes dehydration for durability.
It is the same pride found in the morgue:
the body, finally upright,
refusing to slump for the first time in years.
A vertical spine achieved only through the rot.
He is a masterpiece of posture,
unmoved by the fly on his lip or the weight of the dirt.
Watch the water melt his handle
until he is back to the mud he tried to outrun
Go ahead—pour the tea.

Flummox - You say I'm retarded, what does that mean?

All the time you use the word "Flummox,"
"Addled," "Daft," and "Mazed."
I wonder if you mean flocks or flames,
An adder, or a draft misplaced.
I thought I was supposed to be dumb,
But you make these mistakes.
You say "Flummox" and "Daft" while staring at my face.
I don't think you have what it takes
To brave the world— That's what people say to me.
They say I'm really good, but look at me in a funny way.
Still better than the nurses who see me every day.
They say there are no human robots, no fairies come to play.
Those things are only for children— And no pixies in the day.
They say I am a man with a slow brain
But don't grown ups have so much pain?
I am never sad, I am a big boy, I never cry,
I try to understand "Flummox", I try.
You know, I can never lie.

Regret - Stop

You can't regret living.
Regardless of the misgiving that put you in a cell, no movement—regret the present hell.
You can't regret living.
But you can regret the life you had—the one you lived with no good and no bad.
And you say you are sad?
You can't regret some choices you made—
the ones with no distinction, no right—now seen wrong.
But you can regret your facade, only the one that was your doing.
The one whose end you saw coming, but you chose to do the wrong thing,
You threw that away like deeds much worse— you and only you— no headline.
You can't regret living, because of the good that someone did.
To make you laugh, until you bid goodbye to them, and then lost your head.
You can't regret living.
But you can forgive yourself, your brother, your relatives, and soon the community,
and stop trying to regret the life you live.
You know your life is not yours to give, nor yours to regret endlessly.
Even if you die with none to grieve, do not paralyse—let the life you live stay alive.
Stay alive.
Stay alive...
There are people you love; you need to stay alive.
You can change. You have to stay alive.
Please—I need you.
Don't make me regret.
Please stay alive.
STAY ALIVE.

Perfection is Gold

A crack on new china, soldered in gold,
held by wrinkled hands and silver hair.
Neighbors watching, wealthy and old,
with smiles of crow's feet and a cold stare.
When her legs still moved, the dance was a law;
an unusual sight, a clockwork routine.
She never stumbled, they never saw
the flicker of failure in the spaces between.
Her assistant had hands so bold and so quick
to drag the spotlight away from the trip.
Any stumble was buried in the dark,
a secret held tight in a master's grip.
The rope holding the spotlight can always slip.
Now she is truly perfect in every way—
a scratchy laugh that makes the trees sway.
Perfection is the dented gold of a flawless medal.
It is gold.
It is never attained; it is only staged.
Only the blind are lucky enough to see
the beauty in the glitch of the machine.

An Untalented Mastermind

He decided to give winning advice,
A farce, by accident to a child, a perfect device;
And he thought he was the mastermind,
That talent was only his to find.
He used,
Abused,
These blank slates, pure minds,
Revenue, for the ego, consuming, leaving rinds
In tuxedo shackles and alligator purse binds
After all, he had discovered them.
He now clothed them in skirts with no top and no hem,
Fashionably torn; Prodigy, just like them.
While flashes and mics pried,
They shied and tried
To be better, to revive their soul, their heart, because it was his right.
They pushed to be allowed to use their talent,
But he made them wait: months, years.
Now they're old, a waste, nothing to their name.
All because it was his right.
His right over them. His right as the mastermind.

Rhythm - A Rainy Day

They were dancing to different rhythms:
She to mercy, to routine, to the fancy;
He to money, to greed, and more money.
They met on a rainy day.
She found it was all taken away,
Washed in rain, never to be seen again,
And he knew an easy way.
They dressed in all black
and went through the back.
His friend greeted them, no lack in sources or the plan,
But a mask slipped and they ran.
Soaked wrist, bloodied in rain;
And they never saw the rhythm of daylight again.

An Imperial Colour

Violet was once imperial,
Rare, exquisite—a royal scene.
It was for kings and queens,
Until prices fell and successors discarded.

Soon it was easy to be found or made;
Now common, its value had changed.

Violet had to work to blend and match,
Not with gold, but ordinary colours.
Violet's privilege was taken away,
And it did not know how to speak
To commoners or to sway
The heart of the draper.
So violet forever remained in drawers,
a master of a language no one speaks.
Now despised, perhaps forever

Daffodils- Rewritten

Wordsworth writes of daffodils,
roses, daisies, mountains, and hills.
Of dancing waves.
But I see just flowers,
good and sweet,
the wind howling to a beat
set by the ferocious sea,
dancing to swallow in glee.
I see just flowers,
tortured every day by bees.
They say it is so they form a seed—
poked and prodded for progeny.
Reminding me.
I see each flower,
some destined to follow the sun,
ignoring the heat, the burn.
It is destined, you see.
-a well-disguised misery. -
This is "how it should be."

Instruction: The Scale

A scale begins with a child
To trace height, then lines,
Both standing and sleeping;
To trace capital, then small.
Guidelines, then borders for words,
Crossing borders of punishment
While measuring hits and lies.
Pretty lines around words
Mimic welts, mimic cries.
At its peak, the scale points,
Tells instructions on how to guide.
But it measures you
And assigns you a grade
That you carry—
While it forgets to measure hate.
Until it measures your days,
And then the scale is born again;
Born on your grave.
Instruction again

Brilliant like a diamond

He always wished for a diamond,
Shining, blinding, and brilliant.
He prayed to gods and demons alike
To see his diamond come alive,
To see it into his arms arrive—
A heavy light for a hollow life.
He spread the word of a dying dream;
Advice came back like a shallow stream:
"What will be, will be," they said,
But he chose the shovel and dirt instead.
He cut his hands and scraped his knee,
Demanding the land for a guarantee.
Soon, his heart drained, his mouth closed shut;
He lost the why in the grime and the rut.
One final cut, sharp and unforgiving—
Mud and rot held his heart's sole longing.
Bruised palms scrubbed until it was fine;
He stared at the brilliance and he went blind.
Spent and broken, no longer fit,
The diamond found owners; he became an it

Catalyst

You were on a ledge, held by a rope,
Brushed your teeth and then lost all hope.
This morning was doomed;
Tomorrow you'd be news, a ghost in a room.
Then you heard the radio—
A meteor seeking Earth, burning through the sky,
Sent to ensure that everything must die.
There went the debt, the weight, and the drive,
And back came the hunger to stay alive.
To taste a pizza for the last time,
To call your mother, who until now was a mime—
A silent performer in the back of your mind.
To trace the ridges of a lucky coin
That was always so hard to find.
You don't want to "cherish" life;
You just want to be there for the finish line.
Now that we all will die,
The catalyst finally makes it worth the time. 

A Calamity

Your hands shiver, your knees shake;
They buckle and question if you are fake.
Doubt creeps from hands and knees,
To the tongue, a twist, to the forehead a crease.
You stumble in body, then stutter in thought,
facing the crowd that your rot has brought.
Nonsense spreads like mocking smiles.
From your mouth like the rising bile
You thank, you bow, then you run a mile,
Away, away, you don't see the aisles
"You did great," they say, with a blind intensity.
To them, it was poise. To you, a calamity.
No one knows the depth of the crash
until the flashbulbs turn the play to printed ash.
A hundred pictures of your wide, vacant eyes—
your finances, your cheeks, your well-practised lies.
"Don't pry," You say. "You would never even try."
You aren't looking for a lullaby;
You're just waiting for the ink to dry
On the photograph of you with a dead man's eye.

Learn - A Frog

A frog croaks in my nightmare;
I killed one just yesterday.
A murder justified by a single word: learn.
A poor imitation of Sims,
A drop of the pain of Anarcha,
Of Betsey, and Lucy.
At least these are frogs that I use to learn,
Not people the law once allowed us to burn.
I wish I was there to lessen the cruelty,
But a woman is ignored, even royalty.
Pain was a woman's alone to bear,
With plenty of suffering left to share.
Compassion tells us to keep it inside,
While society forces the living to hide,
All for the sake of a white man's legacy;
A chapter in a book, or a Nobel Prize.
Knowledge is thorough in a world where they thrived—
Where frogs and women had similar rights.

Kaput- A Wreath

I am kaput, but not all my lies.
You are kaput; even your bright green eyes
See an act thought through to fool a fool, to make it bow.
Now: kiss my hand on your knees.
A young pair, oh so sweet.
Follow a green ring, green like money,
Crowned with diamonds. Oh, how they shine.
You doubt, but you are never sure. Not like me.
We are already a catastrophe.
You wore a face you thought I would buy
But I knew exactly what would catch your eye.
I know your true identity: a thief
Of the lives of girls, young, unlike me.
They are kaput, once so dear in society
But they were smart. They told me.
Now I'm your worst fantasy:
You watch your coffee for a foul smell,
A boy's dumb guess.
You could never fathom how strong a girl could be.
Tell me: would you like lilies on your funeral wreath?

Operate- The Map

You don't know how I operate.
Cream in coffee makes me hallucinate.
You hid me, then left me
For the whole world to see.
You made me air to breathe.
You fed me;
All I had to do was be.
A handicap
Without a map
Of my own room;
Never seen a room.
What have you done to me?
I have nothing but your memory.
Where will you be?

Chant: How HE the Great Operates

Oh so sweet, and they sweat.
Or they greet, on his feet, at his grace;
Show no face. Incompensate—
That's just fate. Oh so great.
All time runs, to his sins, to his name.
So much fame, all a game;
Bodies maimed, just a frame,
So much gained. Coffins laid.
Child-widow, bag and ward;
Can't afford– next abode.
Jobs are barred. Not a saint,
Not so great. Bow to him.
His majesty, holds the key.
We can't see. Breathe: a fee.
Can we leave? We're not free,
Nor will be. Smile with glee—
Or he'll see. He should grin.
That's his will. That's our bill.
That's how the world operates.

A Derecho: life as a human, both man and woman

I didn't know it was a derecho.
There was so much warning, though;
Pressure I thought you should've known
Before it turned full blown.
Storms I realize you had sown
When you said, "A wife, a man owns."
I laughed.
But I didn't know it was a derecho
Before the court became our baby's home
And said, "He's better off here, amigo."
That's when I saw our bond go.
Born and died
In my mind.
You don't say it as snide.
I want to hide.
A broken man on the papers I sign;
A few years of life lost to stupidity,
And for my child, a hard life meant to be.
All because I can't—
I can't decipher a derecho.

Indulgence: Never Me, I Tell You

I don't want bills; that is vulgar indulgence.
Your little card should do.
A woman should be pretty, not a pittance,
Petty neither, boo.
Amanda has blue shoes; Chrissy has every hue.
Even babies look and coo.
I want them; I want them, beau.
Clarissa's in the kitchen, pots and stew,
Cares about people, bakes—ew.
Her face stuffed like a ewe;
Now that's called indulgence, if I ever knew.
Pray for the manners of which they are bereft;
A treadmill as a birthday gift—
First used in prisons, they saw such a shift.
She does what she likes to do.
Indulgence, I'm telling you;
And she doesn't have a clue.
Don't tell me "You do it too"
I showed you indulgence–
That's not me, now give me the card beau.

Lasting Utopia: A Broken Salve

You are my Utopia; my eyes in the dark, my cornea.
That salve that fixes me.
Your splints: I fix. Your wounds: I dress.
The person that lets me be;
To serve and receive equally; perfection not expected of me.
You are my Utopia, though not ideally.
You don't have money; yes, I see.
But what matters is you told me.
"You are dumb," says your mum,
but I've seen you rich emotionally.
We were with friends the other day;
they kept me at bay. You are their hero, they say,
yet you left them and came to me.
You met my friends, uninteresting—you stayed.
You say, "What do you see in me?" That made me cry.
But you saw me blotchy, so many times, and never said goodbye.
You took a break; everything was at stake.
You were my Utopia, but I learned to live on my own.
You made apologies; now our friends see you wearing my wedding ring.
Now I know it is not utopia, it is a lifetime—no longer named "a fling."

https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/409804137-exploration-dark-poetry

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