Noor.

As noble as Noor Jahan, 

she nestles, like the fragrant nectar 

of nourishing neem. 

Unbeknownst to her, 

her pheromenes emit steam

that lures many suitors.

With the exact majesty 

of her maharani predecessors,

she silently seduces from

the sanctity of her sequined settee. 

Pervasion.

It is blurred lines and electric shock;

when your brain declares war on your world, unleashing an endless barrage of twists and turns. 

Like a tyrant foaming at the mouth for power, it attacks you from behind then tries to tell you that it loves you. 

Running on empty, the highs soar through pastel skies transforming you into superman; with serotonin as your sole disguise.

Shopping sprees take your hard earned money turning it to dust; your reality bursts into flames, your thoughts begin to rust. 

Like the walking dead, your lack of sleep takes the lead, treating paranoia like an honoured guest. 

Anxiety, conspiracy, and chaos hold seats in the polluted parliament inside your head, each chipping away at your sanity, pushing you closer to the edge. 

At the brink of madness, betrayal holds secret meetings with despair, causing your only light to flicker, before it finally fails.

Cluttered.

Reaching for a light switch as it 

transforms into a ferocious beast, 

words fly from my chaotic mind,

at record speed, then slip out 

from between artificial teeth.

I boil water in egg yolk, 

then eat a banana peel, 

put my pants on backwards, 

and fail to separate what's fake 

from what I once knew to be real. 

Elvis wails as Ella croons

inside my head, the whole day through,

and I sit, confused about the way 

that Billie Holiday could somehow

sing the colour blues.

Horns outside my window transport

me back to safari elephants,

as I become convinced that they've

returned to give me a taste

of my own medicine.

In my return to innocence,

where everything old is new,

I stop to smell the flour,

for life is far too short to spend 

each day retightening loose screws.

Arachne.

Carrying her sorrows in silken sac,

unwavering whilst weaving wildly.

Under a sombre sun, or callous cloud,

she spits, and hisses;

feeling jilted.

Centuries since she's 

been hopeful;

eight eyes, wide open, 

filled with wonder.

Mourning every almost happy ending,

crushed as she counts 

one less blessing .

Scarlet letters sealed 

her fate as a spinster,

wrongfully accused 

of eating men for dinner.

Society classified her as 

a sinner,

once jade, emerald, 

but now black widow.

So she spun her salience armed for battle;

no army could have anticipated her arrival.

Adorned in a coat made of her ex-lovers.

Hell hath no fury like the venom inside her.