Poetry writing has never really been my forte. I have always been more confident about my skills in pretty much every other type of writing—fiction writing, social media copywriting, email copywriting, and even blog writing.
This didn’t stop me from taking a stab at writing a few morbid poems over the years, that I’d like to finally share here.
Futuristic
Almost blinded
By the tantalising gleam
Of honey-colored blossoms,
She closes her eyes, revelling
She sits loosely,
Letting the summer wind sway her body
The sullen murmur of bees
and the inebriating scent of lilac
keep her company,
lulling her into a deep meditation.
A loud, obnoxious bong
Jostles her awake.
Familiar anger, pristine white rage
Fills her up, threatens to spew
Like steam over radiator caps
Before her senses deaden quickly
Toes curling up
Hands growing cold,
In vivid contrast to
the genial warmth in the air.
Dragging her feet through the long uncut grass
She steals a furtive glance
At the fantastic shadows of swallows
flying uninhibited in the cool blue sky
Before she takes heavy steps
Deliberate and slow
Towards the big, metal doors.
A mute and felon sorrow
As she buttons up her plain chiffon coat
As she runs a plastic brush through her hair
As she double-knots her dress shoes
Cages her, consumes her whole.
The Pavement
I want to write about fog dispersing street lights, and
Young lovers cozying up under a comforter,
I want to write about burning tongues gulping down hot soup, and
Curious eyes squinting to find stars in the black sky,
I want to write about announcing, “It’s so dark already”,
When the clock strikes six,
Paradoxically, a daily occurrence that surprises
I want to write about tiny heads fitted into monkey caps, and
Doodling on condensation with an index finger, and
Staring at Mickey Mouse’s distorted ears on strangers’ socks
I want to write about all of it, but
When the wreaths start appearing on doors, and
The wind feels like tiny swords against my skin,
I see her blue-grey feet peeking at me,
I feel her icy hands in my disgustingly warm ones, and
I hear her short life
“ABCD”s and “The quick brown fox jumps”,
Muffled cries and uninhibited laughs,
The chime of coin against coin tossed onto her little hand,
Bare whimpers as she succumbs to the brazen cold,
The hollow thud on the pavement
That, yet again, has become a deathbed
Red
I scanned the open cabinets and countertop
until my eyes fell on the rose.
The sight of it, bright and red and mocking,
Flooded my insides with rage.
Red hot rage.
It was suddenly everywhere.
Red on my palms,
red on the broken piece of glass,
red spurting from his chest,
red of the rose.