Hypnos.

Wide awake, this consciousness is heavy leaden,
like a weathered path often downtrodden,
any second could deliver on threats of Heaven,
or find you holding court in Eden's forbidden gardens.

Remorse stands by awaiting further direction,
in its place regrets are soon erected.
The unkempt mind's arsenal overflows with deadly weapons.
Poison's infectious effects result in perceiving curses where there were once blessings.

Dastardly designed is this deceiving deadpan at the surface,
as desperation damages my insides, determined to undo decades of bliss.
Every breath an effort, I just stop and breathe uneasy,
afraid to acknowledge the anxiety that eats me from within.

All this madness--and lack of sleep is the one to blame;
she starts fires but never puts out their flames.
She corrodes sanity, like rats gnawing on the ropes that bind them.
Her talents are tragedies, flowers that faded in beauty once denied of their stems.

Silent Sermon.

Whether I whisper these words to no audience in a dust filled, deserted room,
or yell them louder than a roaring waterfall in the middle of bright, abandoned woods,
they will still fall on deaf ears, as they have for many years now,
they will still be the antecedent to my typhoon tears.

More callous than the hands of world class bodybuilders,
fragile as wet sand that falls apart between my fingers,
brittle as diamonds often confused to be quite strong,
quieter than the lark who's lost her gift of song.

You became my new addiction, quicker than seconds turned to minutes,
I was yours before I knew it, suddenly in it to win it.
This fascination took hold of me, it was like getting lost in the pages of a good book,
unbeknownst to me, you were a thief of hearts, a common crook.

You had my destiny in your hands, yet you chose to walk away,

held all the ingredients to cure my loneliness, instead you let me go astray.
I should've listened when they said to never leave myself to find someone else,
wish I had paid attention when my mother warned me you were bad for my health.

Vitriol.

Born with an acid tongue, you launched verbal attacks that ended careers.
Like burn victims in India, you lashed out to defend perceived threats against your honour. 
Sonic boom—the sound of each blow landing like atomic bombs in Hiroshima. 
Nagasaki even knew you created more casualties than Iwo Jima. 
Instead of saliva, you spit genocide, each word its very own Holocaust. 
Casual remarks were like concentration camps, reuniting divided families in chambers gassed. 
Vocal terrorism, with every sentence ending in beheading.
The scars you left were like brands by iron rod on broken hearts.

Vidhava.

The stark contrast between the brown sand
and the bright orange flame of funeral pyre,
set her mind ablaze with her own devastation,
now that life had changed in an instant.

Despite her own bereavement,
or the insurmountable grief corroding her,
her own children’s accusatory stares
convinced her she was somehow responsible.

Once expected to self-immolate,
for a life without a spouse was not worth living,
fortunately some progress had been made,
now her exile was all that was required.

Plaited hair removed in patches,
revealing the tender scalp it covered.
A woman’s worth has no value,
in patriarchal lands ruled by tradition.

Alas, this sacrament was all for religion,
as she received the white sari that was now her only uniform.
Stripped of her name, she joined her renounced sisters,
in this ashram built on the tears of women who knew her pain.

There is no social death like widowhood:
the loss of one’s spouse, status, and title in a day.
Punishment for the misfortune of being female,
her existence ostracized
until she also believes that she has failed.