Funeral Rites.

Catastrophic calamity caused by careless oversight, you are the dimmest firefly in a field of fluorescent lights. Your pubescent arrogance led you to naively believe you were not out of your league, my fortress remained upright despite your sadly-executed siege. I could outsmart you at this game you attempt to play even if I was asleep, prepare to suffer your greatest loss, because I only play for keeps. You lit the candle at both ends then foolishly feigned ignorance, brace yourself as I attack you from every angle in defence. Not fooling anyone by claiming intellect, you simply regurgitated talking points to seem like you were smart—but now you are my sole target. Bullseye every time when I pierce your heart with every dart, you may think you're safe but death is imminent for I am equipped to end this war you wrongly chose to start. Silver bullets shot at you from afar, you should've begged for mercy instead of proudly pretending that you were a star. Grim is your future, bleak your past, watch as I rewrite your fate, bet you're wishing you hadn't asked for a second helping before finishing what was already on your plate. I'll poke and prod at you with my pitchfork until you're pleading for mercy, give you a single drop of water when you're desperately thirsty. You should've picked your battles but now you're six feet underground, just like your predecessors, you were silenced before you could ever make a sound.

Mama.

Mama was born a fighter, 

into a life of adversity, 

a fate beyond her control.

She was a nurturer from the start, 

and it was evident in the way 

she reared her seven younger siblings, 

without a single word of protest.

To say this warrior queen 

came from humble beginnings 

wouldn't do her abysmal upbringing any justice. 

My mother came from 

next to nothing,

in order to ensure that

we would not have to suffer.

A clay hut, in an indiscriminate village; 

all they had were four mud walls.

Her ambition was inherent, 

as every move she made was with intention. 

She endured the worst, and lived to tell—

a true femme fatale in the making. 

Despot.

Convinced he was the sculptor,
as he chipped at me with a chisel.
Petrified, every time he beckoned me,
like canines called by whistle.

Rusty hangers hid the skeletons,
and all the corpses in his closet.
How desperate for love, was I, 
to ignore the red flags and gossip.

First, I forewent my own happiness
in exchange for demonic demands,
my religion relied on empty promises,
that I ate directly from his hands.

Then, he moulded me like I was clay,
and cleansed me of my former self,
performed open-heart surgery 
while assuring me he was my health.

Soon, I was frail as decrepit trees,
my nerves wouldn't survive the winter,
I was infected by his insecurity,
should've removed him when 
he was just a splinter.

Cold Hearted Snake.

Vulnerable as a viper 

without its venom, 

I might seem weaker than ever 

but I'm more poisonous than pythons. 

Your assets no match 

for the asp I really am, 

my bark is only small 

because my bite belittles many men. 

I might appear to be a lamb 

when you see me in the streets,  

but better believe I am the boa, 

who constricts before he eats. 

The scent of your fear

awakens the anaconda within, 

before you even know it, 

my fangs pierce your skin.