Life, It Goes On, Anyway.

Allow yourself to exist, freely,

for you are tiny particles of stars.
Let your love light the way,
when the world is cold and dark.

Because life, it goes on, anyway,
so go ahead and make your mark.

Wander through your wonder,
whether they are near or far.
You could even see the planets,
if that is the dream inside your heart.

Because life, it goes on, anyway,
so go ahead and make your mark..

Paint vibrantly upon your canvas,
you're already a work of art.
Dance like nobody's watching,
sing every song out real loud,
Maybe you'll master the piano,
or learn how to play guitar.

Because life, it goes on, anyway,
so go ahead and make your mark.

Muse.

Make me your flamenco dancer under the fiery Spanish sun,

hold me, in your arms, like a classical guitar,
caress my body like its strings, let the music serenade the stars.
But if I have to ask for romance, then it loses its appeal.
Acts of love must come from the heart, otherwise
they are conditions of some courtesan's contract.
Paint me, making me your muse, like some pearl earring wearing girl,
write me into epic love stories, like I am your very own Mumtaz Mahal, Juliet or Isolde.
And if I have to pry petals from your heart, like squeezing water from a stone,
I would rather be at the theatre than suffer through your acts.
Affection must be effortless, not chapters in some cheaply written script.
If I must make pleas for love, I might as well learn to celebrate myself instead,
to ask for appreciating words from some mister sets women's rights back,
so take your drug shop novel love back to the store,
for I am a woman who demands to be adored.

Fleet Street.

In London-town of yore but

yet, even to this very day,
slovenly bovine herd
together on conveyor belts.
Chewing cud, eschewing
mud, unconsciously mooving
to have their carotids cut.
Alas, indignant adults,
aren’t we, too, on a slow
march to our own deaths?
Like vermin labyrinthine
lab rats trapped in some
spider’s web—we’re all
ultimately pawns in some
twisted game of Chess.

Obliterated.

 Shadowed by the shame that shackles us,

in a cage of congealed criminal intent.
The pressure to perform provokes a
particular pain, that is unlike any ache I’ve ever felt.

Whether conceived out of familial duty,
or some sort of filial responsibility,
the feeling that washes over me
feels more like a flood designed
to drown us both.

I yearn for the yesterdays when
my behaviour was genuinely inspired!
Instead of this urgency to act
as a result of our affiliation.

Those days of yore before my dreams
were darkened by deeds overdue.
This obligation is a prison—
an unkind incarceration that
obliterates us from the inside-out.

It erodes our alliance through its
unspoken violence; a silence
that reverberates as deafeningly
as a crescendo of violins.

Obligation is the antithesis
to acting out of adoration;
it is the thief who robbed us,
blindly, of the relationship
that we rightfully deserved.