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i patiently watched,
as strands of hair
feathered to ground,
speaking sordid stories
of an awful life.

my fingers picking
artificial brown fringe,
rusty strings plucked
from your harp.

your penance needs not mourning
you've beguiled death
just when you blink

you remained tizzy,
forgetting to close the door;
had intercourse with elusive answers.
you choke on your own words
when you swallow pleonastic verse.

like a teapot,
you cradle boiling coffee.
you spout out bitter caffeine
only to crack mirrors
that breaks your face into pieces.

it never mattered to me,
life has always been this way.
just a reminder, i will always be
your emergency exit.


© martyr



Dear Sister,

In a path to dedicate you, I planted a song in your heart
while you were smoking. Looking up at the fast sped sky,
I tear a drop to signify.

Pasting bass like beats on layers
not rendered. So the voice came out. Toiling on long
hours to reflect myself in the cubicle.

Donít we all just
hum a tune auto-effortlessly. These words cannot replace
the books on your shelf. Nor does the plucked strings
go deeper than a baby pool.

Pure chatter to tatter, cut a
hole to have it patched. Broke china to open my box of
old strong epoxy. Like this, I carried on the melody swaying
on detached chords.

Do you remember our red and white
coloured plastic dance? So naturally it came like the
September rain to cool me and wet you.

No crowds were
present to add cheers and one handed claps. I pretended
their hearts were captured by my piece. Then you cried
and trembled so painfully.

Leaving me without limbs and
further than worry. With the last hit of a pitch the tone silenced
screaming victims. Shades were drawn and thought to be
uplifting sun was kept out.

For now.

© martyr

martyr; one who undergoes death or great suffering in support of a belief, cause or principle.