Idle hands
Twiddling thumbs
Taking an unpredicted walk through the Devil’s playground
Fallen Angels with flames still scorching their wings are tying off at nearby picnic table
Swings hang low and empty
Where future class valedictorians used to sit
Now they sit in the darkness where the Angels cry
The vacant basketball court is littered with torn “I’m sorry” letters, used needles, and smashed Wild Roses
The air is polluted with “I miss you’s” from loved ones who had to save themselves while there was still something left to save
Sneakers from morose motherf*ckers hang from the telephone wires
A place where junkies are at peace while the inner Angel weeps
Lonely in isolation
Dark corner desolation
Destination f*cking nowhere
Tears of friends and family hiss as they hit the pavement
Steam rises from the cracks of broken dreams and shattered hearts
Humidifying every lie and bad excuse
Precipitating our concrete pain forest
In the circle of strife and squalors of nodding heads
Categories:
squalors, addiction,
Form: I do not know?
A small blood pumping machine and a huge pitcher of emotions and sorrows,
nobody bothers and want it to borrow ,
my heart is a beautiful magical door,
A treasure of feelings but everyone ignores.
My C.P.U identifies every hurting thing,
process them and control goes to my heart I think,
then tears roll down from my eyes,
but my heart says try try and don't cry.
So these are endless feelings of my innocent machine,
this is really a world of squalors and teens,
keep your feelings in this magical door ,
so that they can't be stolen and ignored.
Categories:
squalors, life, satire, heart, feelings,
Form: Rhyme
Is friendship like a funeral
Where cold frenzies are played out
Among friends of the darling years?
Neighbours protect themselves
In solid caves of ancient discord
Where offsprings are bred & armed
With deadly weapons of hatred!
Men linger here sad & tired
As in a land of the living-dead –
The drummers are like the dancers:
A shadow of their ancestors!
War-eyed fake & drudged intellectuals
Litter our paths of native mind
Bearing giant luggage of rumours
More fearful than real battles
Of castled Chauceric knights!
O in those far-away tenements
And squalors which house students
Many an empty ruse germinate
In a soil rich in abuses!
Two inmates fled from the night
To those hut-like structures
Where secret readings are enacted –
Then two lads for long cursed!
Men & women & kids linger here
In a small society born for love
Sensibility & contemplation & inquiry
Forsaken in cold rumours of wars
While sanity & love dwell in the grave!
Does hatred breed love & health & life?
The Oxford days are gone?
Categories:
squalors, visionarylove,
Form: I do not know?