Of Addictions and Cravings

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So how does one get out of something like an addiction?

The smoke that fills the room intoxicating time to bend,

Dancing on the floors in little twirls, to seduce will to decay…

The ever growing appetite calling on the blender to hurry.

There’re going to be guests in the house of the old man.

Few words spoken amidst the thousand candleflames chuckling

The noises whispering with the dusty old glassware and cutlery.

The wines will be flowing, the grapes crushed for the bees.

His old beloved’s had plunged down from a lofty cliff.

The smoke’s been burning thus for years and years,

The wines flowing, and all the wax finery will one day melt,

The ground, where everything always find a way to return.

What hope does he have, or what hope befell on these,

Little hearts so torn up to not understand these tragedies.

That chance, mere chance begot them of…?

What of the orchid flowers of temptation,

The sin that offer a heaven of forgetfulness and fantasy?

But in the drizzle of your paradise you’re washed clean,

Of having committed prostitution with death.

Addiction is bad they say, it makes you live a lie!

I say being good, you’re not living the truth either.

Death is inevitable, the day will come we’ll give up anyway.

Being good, you’ll hurt more lives at the end.

Or die scared to death, reality was not real,

Stuck in an asylum you’ll wonder if people weren’t real.

You’re the single human prototype stuck in a virtual illusion.

Some stupid experiment in a stuck up madman’s lab,

Who calls himself God.

Do you want to get out of misery, take the first step soon,

And ask yourself for the truth, and ask a thousand more times.

The scary truth is inevitable, because you’ve known it all along.

Something you can never give up on, cuz’ you’re just hooked on.

Forever and ever. And you don’t care if you don’t win it there.

And still, you just can’t give up. Can you?

Obsession, you call it, I call it love. Just love.

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At last, but what happens to the one who gives up on life,

Fearing that she’ll end up loving living it too much?

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Waiting

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At a shore on a sunny day…

One shell laid inverted on another,

A giant foot stamps hard on it.

The sand shifts to take them in.

Nothing changes, nothing breaks.

That’s how I don’t care.

My heart’s laid bare, take it in,

You never know when the sand gets wet,

And molds into hard clay.

‘Cause then the shells will break,

When the foot pounds in,

With a little more weight.

A Moment

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Here I tried writing something…so here it goes :-

My eyes wish to behold, again and yet again, the grace with which, thee, my sweet lordship, unfold thy deepest, most wondrous mysteries. My fingers wish to trace your fair skin, under which the blue veins snake their way through your flesh, more fragrant than all of Persephone’s grove, by far worth more than Hades’ treasure trove…

And it’s thy heart, made of the densest gold, harder than the hardest diamond, but it’s just that I wish to win. Thy lips, that speak so much, thy eyes, express. I wish to smoothe out that delicate tensed brow. I wish to sort through your beautiful long lashes and to fill thy sweet mouth with gentle kisses. And there lying around in some far away meadow, shall we have our sweet recess. We will share little sweet promises, sweet little breaths exchanged. How, lying there on the warm, moist grass we would make wagers on our lives.

It’s a sport of young lovers, such as ourselves to let Passion, Love’s hot headed brother override our sane rational minds. Take oblique decisions, the orders, our hearts fail to obey. I know this will someday end, the rat race of passion and morals clashing will end one day. Like thee, ever so gentle, so noble, may someday just walk away, for my goodness’ sake. But it’ll be me here, rooted to the scent of this meadow, and the lingering aftertaste of your kiss on my tongue.

I’ve really attempted to write prose after a really long time. Could use an opinion if anyone could offer any regarding the progress of the piece. Thanks.

The Winds of Difference

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Little houses, two, three stories, some tall,
Unsymmetrical blocks,
Leaking out light through little bullet holes.
Glowing with dark sinister light from selfish motives,
For a wayfarer to stumble and bleed.
The wind rustles, making a branch knock out,
Their spirits at midnight, during public blackouts…

One big hut, in the middle of winds and sands,
Water, borne from that dry well miles away,
Lies abundantly in a little pot infront.
The vast mud porch stands starkly illuminated,
In the haunting night, by a dirty little earthen lamp.
A wanderer lost in the desert finds a world in it.
Though alien in tongue, and money,
Dirty the oil lamp, but the effort never goes amiss.
Judging by the shadows, thrown on the old, painted wall,
A friendship weaves in a new bond,
And the light of the lamp resurrects a dead emotion.
Reminding and warming.
Symmetry lies in the human heart.