Promises made and promises broken
Promises that are so often forgotten
But promises kept are affection’s token
And promises broken suck dirty rotten
Some are made in the blink of an eye
And some are born out of obligation
Some are just parts of a big fat lie
And some promises cause constipation
But the real worth of a promise, then
Lies in the moment in which it’s made
Because words spoken can hurt badly when
The tongue works like a razor blade
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Tautologies By: suraj sharma 3 comments
Carry me, my love, she said,
And I carried her to bed.
Numerous lies were told her there,
To catastrophe she was led.
Tautologies I recited in her ears,
I had nothing else to offer.
Unwearyingly she learnt to live,
In this empty king’s empty coffer.
But I was up to evil again,
I slaughtered her unborn children of hope.
Blinded her with recursive silence,
And bound her with a fantasy rope.
Every fiber of her being, then,
Was held prisoner in my breath.
Carry me, my love, she said,
And I carried her to death.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
And I carried her to bed.
Numerous lies were told her there,
To catastrophe she was led.
Tautologies I recited in her ears,
I had nothing else to offer.
Unwearyingly she learnt to live,
In this empty king’s empty coffer.
But I was up to evil again,
I slaughtered her unborn children of hope.
Blinded her with recursive silence,
And bound her with a fantasy rope.
Every fiber of her being, then,
Was held prisoner in my breath.
Carry me, my love, she said,
And I carried her to death.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Rasputin’s Revolver By: suraj sharma 2 comments
Flare and smoke and a pointy copper shell,
Your own personal rocket on a staircase to hell
Rasputin’s revolver and it’s front loading muzzle
A dash of my ire and there goes this puzzle
A promptly squeezed trigger causes inanimate combustion
Claustrophobic mind opens up to the congestion
Like molten lava escaping from a lubricated vent
There’s nothing you can do then, nothing but repent
There always lies a way to put an end to this dissension
When you get too old and barely eke out a pension
And life becomes a bitch and the only way to dissolve her
Is a fucked up mind and this Rasputin’s revolver
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Your own personal rocket on a staircase to hell
Rasputin’s revolver and it’s front loading muzzle
A dash of my ire and there goes this puzzle
A promptly squeezed trigger causes inanimate combustion
Claustrophobic mind opens up to the congestion
Like molten lava escaping from a lubricated vent
There’s nothing you can do then, nothing but repent
There always lies a way to put an end to this dissension
When you get too old and barely eke out a pension
And life becomes a bitch and the only way to dissolve her
Is a fucked up mind and this Rasputin’s revolver
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Dreams By: suraj sharma 7 comments
And thus I,
Remain uncoiled,
Between the sheets
My drawers are soiled
And you remain, desecrated,
In my sorry soul,
Engulfed in your own mélange
Enveloped by your camisole,
I relapse,
As I collapse,
Is this for certain?
I’m unsure. Perhaps.
But Strange,
as it seems,
But we never get as close
As we do in dreams.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Remain uncoiled,
Between the sheets
My drawers are soiled
And you remain, desecrated,
In my sorry soul,
Engulfed in your own mélange
Enveloped by your camisole,
I relapse,
As I collapse,
Is this for certain?
I’m unsure. Perhaps.
But Strange,
as it seems,
But we never get as close
As we do in dreams.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
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- suraj sharma
- my mind, therefore, becomes this outstretched field of immeasurable serenity, which, although illuminated at angles awkward and unfamiliar to my eyes - is neither dark nor twilit. The strange lighting turns the vacuous foreplay of shadows chasing shadows into an euphoric, almost utopian feeling which is held in suspension as long as this configuration of appearances beckons the restlessness of reason ever forward into the uncharted hinterlands of imagination while at the same time compelling me to bless the lighting director.