2k15.4
He said he loved change
his eyes addressed me
so intently
he almost did
***
I tried
to make a wish
but the candle
blew me out
***
Her mind
was too much
to take
& his depth
too shallow
***
She can't go anywhere
she can't stay & be
anyone else
the baggage she carries
is not some luggage
some things cannot be
unpacked
Six books.
Six books you were given by God to raise, nurture and fill up as you desired.
So you wrote on them the most graceful of lines, the deepest of poems and the most beautiful of stories.
You painted us a canvas of absolute beauty and minimum imperfections.
Drawings of ease and hardship outlined by love and affection.
Colours so vivid they could elate us when we’re down, treat us when we’re ill, have me bounce around and also stand still.
My father is more than an architect of structures, he is an architect of character.
He designed us, built us, made us into the greatest masterpiece he has ever worked on. Of course, that took a few beatings.
I’ve always wanted to be my father.
From the first time I tried to mimic his signature to all the times I got so giddy when people said we look the same. So yeah, thank you for the good looks.
My mother. My mother. My mother.
Funniest woman I know. She’d probably make fun of this poem if she heard it.
She blessed me with charm in the form of a smile, wit and satire you can see from a mile. Her hugs and laughs give me life and she cooks a really mean molah.
My love and gratitude for my parents would exceed the desert and the seas if every grain of sand and every drop of water was a simple “I love you and thank you”.
Biologically, they gave birth to me
Spiritually, they taught me all that I stand for
Mathematically, they’re 12 and I’m 144
Chemically, they’re the catalyst of my success and joy
Metaphorically, an old man’s last wish and a kid’s first toy
Ultimately, they’re the Thierry Henry to my Arsenal, except they never left.
There’s a statue of them inside of me that keeps me going.
That drives me to be
Half the man my father is
And to find half the woman my mother is
For I am their son, the greatest trophy I’ll ever achieve in my life.
Red, stark amidst the swarms of grey. Colossal white walls. A deluge of indistinct faces. And then—red.
It shouldn’t have been there; grey was the only color allowed within this white immensity. I still wonder how she managed to keep it on, that little girl with a red ribbon in her hair. Did the clothing officers fail to notice it? Or did they let it pass, granting her a miserable last jot of luxury?
It was this red that woke me up, pointing out the monstrosity that reigned within me. When it was all grey, it was easy. It was normal. It was a mere cleansing of the dirt from all the white, producing it anew and shimmering—purified.
But now, how can I destroy this red ribbon? This innocent, fiery, and zestful color.
And then my hands were red. Their faces were red. Their clothes were red. I only saw red. At the back of my eyes, it was flashing red. My ears were blaring, ‘RED’. The confines of my mind were swamped with red. My heart seeped in red. I was bathing in red. Despite all the blood that I’ve shed, I’ve never seen this red.
Ten . . . Nine . . . Eight . . . Seven . . . Six . . . Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . . One.
I pressed the button—red. I heard the screams—red.
And then I saw no red. Wiped. Cleaned. Gone.
White.
My refuge,
My prayer;
hear me out,
console me.
"Don't breathe with your nose and mouth uncovered"
And when you do it tastes like burnt bread
You feel like the inside of an old old box
Your stomach bounces against your diaphragm
Your esophagus is half its normal size
There's a stone stuck between your lungs
Rocks rattle inside your skull
Sending scorpions
Snakes
Cacti
Sand swishing
Around like rocks in a jar
Somewhere in the middle
There's a palm tree
But it gets held onto until it dissipates
Disappears
Disintegrates
Like that mirage you saw five minutes ago
"Don't think about it"
