Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Strings of a Violin

A violin player
sounding under a fallen leaf
of a bronze rusted fall
searching for love and other lies
he plays his moves
her eyes wide as flames
no shadow, secrets
a burning obstacle along his tune
the strings are long and thin
one can fall over an edge
listening leaves tear down
laying on a moist floor,
feeling his firm posture on the ground
her dark hair wails, the wooden violin
a moving solid within his hands
curves boil through his bloodstream
and yet the road is left mute

Friday, November 7, 2008

7ajara Waraga Makas

7ajara Waraga Makas
My new blog :D:P
just the random stuff that intrest me really!
you can see it on http://7ajara-waraga-makas.blogspot.com/
and i'm loving it!

Angel of Death in Lust

A lit room is empty,
without the shadow of laughter
sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, lost
some under the soil of a
country they once fought for.
Some fighting in countries
where all language is gibberish
blood shed, on their faces
dripping off their mothers' cheek
bullets shot, through bodies
dead used as new age cartridges
Angel of death picking daisies
"I've seen the men,
young and old
in a haze, rushing
towards an enemy, no
running to me they go"

Monday, November 3, 2008

The Riddle

He sat there.
A pinch of cold stroke him.
thinking, writing, laughing
The space is diminutive,
The clean fragrance within an atmosphere.
Tiles surrounded him.
He sweats as he pushes himself,
nothing, but an odor,
the cleanliness fades.
Boulders of fists,
a splashhe smiles in relief.
Not yet, It's not over.
The smell is striking.
Blood around his body is seen in the color of his face,
until it leaves his naked body.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

I am Whatever

I am whatever
I am whatever
breath in, this is reality
just like a flying stone,
it will hit the ground
space is an after like
where rocks float on.
Food is practically shit
put in a presentable form,
just like tears
they are full of it.
Life is simple we die
I am whatever
Isolated in the numbers of years
we believe in illusions or what they call feelings.
Broken glass spill blood.
I am whatever.
Clock ticks a 360,
a routine we play in our minds,
everyday 360.
I am whatever.
Specs of air we are
with wind, we fly, with trends.
A life style.
Until we are disposed,
life is suicide
pollution, wars, illnesses.
and I remain