Devil's Carnival

How would you run from what's inside?
The broken swings,
And the abandoned dolls,
The carousel turns with the flickering lights,
The horses moving up and down,
To the macabre music,
dances the smiling clown, till the morrow.

How would you run from what's inside?
Your own darkness,
a comforting blanket.
The songs of defeat and pain,
Turn into the bugle announcing
The vanquishing of your sorrow's rain.

Trapdoors

Trap doors everywhere,
One wrong step
Abysmal despair.

Climbing up the stairs
Look behind
No where to go; vertigo.

Warm hands reaching out,
Skeletons of the past,
Pulling you down.

Clear water springs in here,
Mirages they are,
They disappear.

Kind soul,
Arms spread wide.
Only to choke you,
In the dead of the night.

Glitter Gutters

What do they care about us?
Those who walk the nights,
Covered in glitter
And smelling of inebriation.
What do they care about us?
Us with the broken hearts
Us who are so close,
Yet miles apart.
What do they care about us?
Us, who cry into the pillows
Wishing they would know.
Us, who wall the tightropes of sanity.
What do they care about us?
They, who feed us sweet lies
They, who never said goodbye.
What do they care about us?
As our emotions translated into physical pain,
Our innards burning and our brains screaming,
As we peep through our covers, hiding our tears.
But what do they care?
As long as they're all fine and good,
And we're there for the bad days.
What do they care about how they kill us?
What do they care about us?

Toy Soldiers

As much as it hurts,
We are soldiers.
We mask the pain with bandages and expired morphine,
We wear masks on our faces,
If only there were bandages for the soul.

Last Stop- Paradise

Where do we go when we die?
Is it truly the last goodbye?
Do we become stardust again,
Or the essence of rain?
Do we become wistful memories,
Or the sweetness behind pain?
Do we become the grey beneath the colour,
Or the winter behind summer?
Or is it the other way around?
Do we go to the places beyond the horizon,
And fill the gap between the moon and the sun?
Is it us behind that double rainbow,
Or hiding in that evanescent firefly glow?
Do we truly even die?

Question Marks

Can I look into your eyes?
Could I prepare a boat to sail uncharted waters with you
and smile, even as we drown in them?

Can I peer into the other side;
the side you hide behind your soul’s windows,
tainted by things of your past.

Will you open them for me?
Will you reveal your demons to me,
as I try to unlock this door you hide behind?

Can I touch you?
Can I write our story on your skin,
as I talk you to sweet slumber?

Can I feel your heartbeat?
Can we sync it to mine?
And as you slowly kiss me,
Can I look at the sky and thank the divine?

You sat on my bed
the sunlight dancing off your face
as you asked me,
‘Why do you like question marks?’
And I replied,
‘I don’t really know, but I think it’s because I like wonder.’

Can I take a photograph?
And show you how happy you looked when you laughed
as I tickled you that lazy December afternoon,
 despite all the uncertainty we find ourselves shrouded in.

Can I reveal to you,
though it’s as childish as it seems,
that whenever we cross roads together,
I always feel like we’re going on a marvelous adventure,
Some faraway land, an island?
Or maybe the pizzeria next door,
wherever it may be,
I’d go on a thousand adventures with you,
and write them on this coffee stained paper
and sleep with all those memories in my head.
No matter where.

~For the Poets United prompt- Design

The Typewriter

She sits with panache,
looking out the window.
The sunlight peeping in,
through veins in the sky
Crossed legged, in a snug sweater
and coffee in hand,
she blows over the cup.
A lonely typewriter sits on the rosewood table
the scent of antiquity attached to it.
It longs for fingers to run over the keys,
to let flow the black ink,
to tell stories.

She steals a glance at it,
"Come to me, Come,
Write something. Write yourself."

She hides behind her commercialized coffee mug,
with the standard silly coffee table slogans scrawled over it.
"But I can't think of anything to write.
I'm running dry, dry, dry.
I feel empty."

She looks over at the typewriter again,
that old pal, waiting patiently.
"Write about the emptiness.", it whispers.
She walks over, cautiously
Like a curious infant
at the sight of something wondrous.
Gingerly sitting on the chair,
She runs her hand over the keys.
She writes.
No pause.
No interval.
She wrote.
Her dog resting at her feet.
Calm and quiet at the knowledge,
his master is revitalized.
She takes out the finished paper and smells the ink.
"I love you grandmama"
She looks at the typewriter and says, teary eyed.

Note: Writers always have had a seemingly eternal love affair with Typewriters,for some strange yet comforting reason.