Monday, June 3, 2013


Cracking the silent airs,
They scream voices more than a pair,
We will not seize to care,
We will not halt at the words; be fair,
What is fair?
She closes her eyes,
Lord, let them go away,
She cries,
Stop it!
She slowly but fearfully drifts back to her pillow,
She prefers to look up,
And is all comes back to her,
Odour of Friday night,
At the stadium she was a she knight,
She had fans,
And yeah was fun,
But that October,
Too much bang,
The month she scrapped off her calendar
She had killed her!!!!
Cracking though the air,
They scream more than a pair,
She holds the pillow between her ears,
Stop it,
Please stop it, Lord!
But it isn’t Him,
It’s the other side,
It is her spirit,
Creatures of the old religion…..
…present day…
New Doctor “who is she?”
Nurse “Sally, 38, brought herself in 15yrs ago”
New Doctor “ Ahuh”
Nurse “she claims to have killed someone”
New Doctor “who?”
Nurse “herself”

The end…all rights reserved

NOTE: abuse of drugs is as harmful to your mental health as much as to your physical health


She draws her curtains,
Rays on sunset break in,
It is time to gloom,
Sweep the streets with her witch broom.

She can see the town lights,
Finally the days has let in the night,
For her, the day has just started,
Boards of bills to be darted

She turns on the shower,
Drops of hot water give her power,
But she tastes bitter fears,
It’s her own tears

Why do they flow bitterly?
Didn’t the three shadows agree clearly?
That this was the only way to suffer,
The gains of money and power

She has no family,
The cold streets fill her events diary,
For six years this has been the trend,
Lonely wasteful men are her friends,
Daily bread

Her class has improved though.
Its way earlier than yesterday she shook dirty paws,
Of the dogs that had no tails to wag,
On the way to become the pole scag
She shivers; she hates to remember the days of the rugs

Now at the arena she is queen,
An angel with no white wings,
She prefers puppet strings,
Others satisfaction is her fruition,
Her prison, wasteful men admission

Church women object her mission,
Don’t they know it’s the oldest profession?
They whisper that her name is unwritten,
As she is wicked, a fallen star that glisten
And she shall not arisen,
But for repentance and forgiveness

Back to business,
Tomorrow she may need to change banks,
When the rates have sunk,
But today is yesterday’s tomorrow,
Shroud in speculative fears of pitiful sorrow
Fears of if she will ever invest what she borrows

She opens the door,
Out into the cold silent streets she goes,
Her day has just started,
Boards of bills to be darted

The end…all rights reserved

Warning: this piece is neither intended to encourage prostitution nor condemn those who are practicing the same