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There is so much poetry gushing in me these days, I can sometimes hear little bits of poetry splashing about in my gut. Or may be it's gas. But I've been spewing out as much of it as I can. This happens now and then. When I've been all parched like empty plots lying in the sun for a while, suddenly I get flooded. And I love them floods! But I'm not an idiot. I know when these floods come about. And they don't come about without reason too. Need for a boost in self-esteem, reassurance, need to please, too much free time, whatever. But the point is, it's awesome. 

So here be some poetry:.

You sit forlorn, mist lining your faces

Your deplorable, despicable faces -

dull promise running through them

like an unobtrusive strand of hair.

The moon melts into an angelic face,

the stars come together to mend your heart.

Bolted to your seats, tired and dazed,

you await 

the perfect sunrise.

But who will mourn your loss?

How will you relinquish your pain?

There are no authors left to

write of such fatuity anymore,

for they're all drudging to pawn off their own pain,

weeping like children, carving into tree barks,

vomiting outside cheap bars, drunk,

penning away in the hope of respite.

So go home, and change that lightbulb.

There is no real dawn.

                                                                                                                                                                I've committed a single crime, far too many times. I hid it in my pockets till it burnt my fingers. I held it inside me, like a mother protecting her child from evil that clung on to him like dust to a ceiling fan. I nursed it within me till it grew, moulded it into its best form, carved it into my veins. But one morning when I woke, my head remained drenched in a darkness saturated with cries. To have held on to a poem until it finally died, escaping my veins, my pockets, my memory. That is a crime. And I have a history of crime hiding behind my ears, like a magician's coin.

I don't know what those lines are. They won't go away!

P.S: I've given up on naming my poems. And trying to come up with creative post titles, clearly.