Sunday, August 08, 2010

IF WRITING IS THERAPY THEN I AM IN

NOTHING CAN BE FIXED

A little brown drawer
creaks and screeches
it comes alive when I sleep
singing sweet cricket songs

A faded purple lamp
hoists its fabric like a proud sail
the flicker dies in half a breath
tick tock goes the thick black clock

A red rubber slipper
slips slaps with the morning rain
depressions etched on its spine
remind of a hundred miles left behind



BLUE NOTES

Paper clips have a strange way with life, more like with the potential to hurt and disember everthing around.

A man steps on a pavement, with neat new stone blocks paving the way only to find that his feet don't fit in the new maze of rectangles and can never walk again.

This saxophone I know keeps choking on me, every guiltless note sticks on the walls, sheets, books, air and everything in between.

The wet morning newspaper screams out strangely as the cheap print dissolves into one another and lies to anyone who would care to believe.

A dashboard clock decided to only show time when it is same, every minute and every hour is the same. Every time was same.