Tasenda

Are you done shooting me? A million bullets headed my way Blinding me, maiming me, cutting me Now that you have me by my balls Is it what you imagined it to be like? Are you done praying for me? Condolences swathed in batons sent my way Pimping me, stripping me, strangling me Now that you bribed me with blood money How does my ash-stricken flesh taste? Are you done fooling me? Fake kings and queens that you sent my way Flogging me, skinning me, murdering me Now that you sit on the throne How does it feel to fuck over the dead?                                                                        ...

This fog of derision That I am driven through Every night in my dream, Darkness in combat boots chasing me, will lift one day I, Who am trapped in my own mind, a recently developed ghetto, Will slash through the urban jungle With its thickets of half baked houses And rivers of human sweat, breaking free This prison of my own choosing, An exile which is bonfire of my vanities Kindled by an ego on a feeding frenzy, Will have its bars bent and its walls pulled down I, Collector of broken things And broken people, who devours the Sun every morning and holds onto Little madness that falls gracelessly into Insanity, now sells scrap metal Secretly inscribed with Nashtaliq

I am a word written on water  I can't be remembered  I am a fragmented memory of ancient love  I can’t be forgotten  I am a old love letter laced with poison I can't be read  I am a terrible lie told in a desperate moment  I can’t be unsaid  I am a remnant of the war between Ifrits and men I can’t be enchanted  I am a unmarked grave in the mountains  I can't ever go home