to let go

sliver of doubt

the city roughs

anonymous

a child
a forgotten child
no name

the letters
of the alphabets 
deserted

unworthy 
he is 
they say
no 
A
B
C
D...

here take a D
D for die

for 
a Depraved child

breast fed
on dreams not had
sleepless nights

ingesting
pills of disorientation
lunacy
lack of
lucidity

wrapping himself
in the warmth of a blanket
that does not exist
the fabric of which is
fabricated
dyed in
Debased

subverted
story
he
a child
a forgotten child
no name

for him
the streams turn
dry
like the princess
of lust
herself
otherwise
inviting the world 
the universe 
and all the dark matter
with open 
arms
turns away
from him
rebuking him
she

not for him

she feels repulsed
and turns away from
him
a crude rejection
accentuating
the pain inside him
by the judgemental
closing of her legs

him
so low a creature
that the creatures
of the underground
look down upon

gone

he is far gone
even for those 
that he stands
before

seen right through

them looking
at the decorative
wall paper
coming apart
and falling on the 
ground
which seems like a 
piece of art
smeared in high-taste
to them
as compared to this
crumbling 
Discarded 
living
invisible
artefact

him
so low a creature
that the creatures
of the underground
look down upon

a child
a forgotten child
no name

what art means to me...

rain inspired emotion

oh how the rain inspires emotions

doesn't it

all the creatures 

that were laying
inert 

underground

emerge 

like
wild weeds
and start on 

with their
drones and croaks
and hymns 

and romanticised verses

holding their banners high
self inflected burden
of christening

this 

as the season of love
this here 

a drop of passion
this here 

a drop of fire and flame
this here 

a drop of nostalgia
and this here 

a drop of longing

their facial expressions
ecstatic
satiated
like these drops of rain
have been sent
just for the blocked pores 
of their neglected skin

and now
now 
that the rain is here
they say 
they are cleansed

but
to put it bluntly
or as sharply 
as these shards of water
slap against my face

i say
i am sick of
listening 
to all this glorified
exaggerated praise

for
those who love the rain
get drenched

and don't sit in their 
rooms
or cabins
or behind window
panes
and
stay satisfied with 
experiencing rain
from there

i say
i am sick of
watching
the rain forced 
to make its watery claim
as the season of love

what happened 
to the summer's fair 
share of
short
fleeting 
romances

and the winter's 
stories of fireplaces
and warm blankets
and hands cupping
mugs of hot chocolate

but no
oh
how the rain 
inspires emotions

doesn't it

and makes the droners and the croakers

find their voices and lost feelings

once again

but

to put it bluntly
or as sharply 
as these shards of water
slap against my face

people 
of love
and passion
and fire and flame
and nostalgia
and longing

don't
sit
and
wait
for the rain

jet lagged

dance of the wild flowers

kneel

the reject

moratorium

what!

dire

bloody conscience

persecution

autumn island

"I'm writing to you from the loneliest, most secluded island in the world. I mean,
 the farthest away place from anything else..." 
- Dear Lonely Animal by Oni Buchanan