At the top of my lungs, I scream In my darkest hours, you are my sunbeam Into the River Lethe, you become my memory For you simply debunk that life is too short for a long story. Around the world in 80 days, seemed not enough to explore you, Against all odds, I swear it on the River Styx to stick with you in a shade of hue. Until the world ends, forever ain’t the word to immortalize you while we’re going down in history.
*Preposition Poem – The poem is a seven line poem, each line begins with a preposition. Authors write about themselves, their feelings and emotions.
Snakes on the floor, on the shiny sparkly floor, trying hard to slither right through you. But let me tell you, I already knew what they do not know. Slick stories soon forgotten on a graveyard of lost things. So, no need a shovel to dig a grave
Crocodile on the river mouth – A pathway where a river flows into the sea, Hungry for a piece of meat. But let me tell you, killing a crocodile is a sign of luck. Worries are over and so as danger. Do not trust crocodiles, If you crossed one: be wary.
Vultures start circling in the air, Like you are the subject of gossip and slander. They might be in control of the weather, But let me tell you, They only try to take advantage on what’s readily available. Prepare on what’s coming The storm provides, yet do not be a prey to the death eaters: Use all your senses to the opportunities they hardly navigate.
Poison ivy creeping along the ground, Ingratitude like a parasite Itching on your skin if it touches you But let me tell you, The only way to defeat poison ivy is to dry them out, Never handle them especially by the root or stem They are rashes: avoid them Before it’s too late.
Do not blend, You will turn out to be like them. Bend like you’re unbreakable. But let me tell you, Traitors never win! Let the turncoats switch sides. Think things through; shifting allegiance like Judas does not ring a bell to one’s pure heart.
We all have stories to tell. We can be bad or good in someone else’s stories. Yet, we are all stories in the end. Like burning pictures turned into ashes as the photographer grieving for his lost. Yes, we are all stories in the end.
And I’m dead. This is my eulogy to the old me.
Hearing dirty stories, hearing wildfire lies or hearing fragments from the fabricated printed receipts is something besieging on your party like a rain that is non-stop, malevolent, eerie and appalling. With their definitive faces and transitioning faces on how they connect with the absolute bubble bursting in the air encouraging you to join with the heist and be one of their culprits – nothing is ever undertaken in a pinky swear of an idyllic childhood. And then, they were like: upon getting a glimpse of your past transcending to your future, they turned to face you, eyes appraising, eyes assessing, eyes reading – running up and down and then up and down again with their usual tricks about dealing with cards or they’re like paparazzi binding stories with their binoculars all up in the headlines; and you’re in a hot water again. Truly, rumors fly.
I hate to say this, but this is why we can’t have nice things. And I’d rather go pshawed and fied on anyone who disagrees! This is how the world works. No more burying the hatchets from now on, for I will be going to rain on someone’s parade. Like burning witches on the witching hour, slaying dragons with their two-faced behind burqa, hunting vultures and lively kissing fish whisperers as the leaves telling the wind to contaminate the air, well, I am your nightmare and it’s time for me to say, “checkmate” as the time will be my ultimate truthteller while you are trying to recycle wasted time. And I cannot wait to see you manipulating your failing game bending and mending the brokenness of that fractured bone as if it heals in an instant antidote of articulation. Brace for the fall!
The old me has gone. Feel the heat of the brand new me. See the role you made me play! The “he said, she said” becomes an epitome of my venting computer-generated veracity. Mic dropping on the floor. Throwing stones on the pedestal. Washing the dishes made from stain. And I will never gonna bring a knife to a gun fight; for I will make sure that will you know that it was I who made this end. Et tu brute to the pretenders! Here comes the lightweight. Run!!!
I smell your colors. Scattered with ink of different personalities beyond imaginary lines I hoped to be extraordinary but brutally unstable. I have seen you from a far. I have seen your art – your stain. I can still see you. You can’t hide on me.
You put a number on me. Stabbing me. Pulling me. Shading me. Changing summer into winter. Hanging me from your tree of unhappiness wondering what it is I’m looking for or what is in store in your mind, In your heart, In your head, In your soul.
How famished you are in the dark! Are you hungry for more? ‘cause you keep on coming back for more! Plagiarizing terms of your creator like saying, “Hey! Whatever, I invented you!” No acknowledgement needed. No credits. No shoutouts. Nothing.
Just a juvenile scam; never a quitter. A camouflage. A copyright infringement intended. Just pretenders and sirens. Boom… gone. We moved on. Who’s laughing now? I gotta laugh! Leaving you with my permanent mark.