The Poetry Marathon

I pick up this book

To tell you how awesome you are.

May the inks transform you into a better version of yourself.

You’re more beautiful than

What your reflection shows;

I believe you’re the star in an empty sky,

And the moon seated on water.

Do not fret at all,

Midday or the pain of being

Stuck in the airplane.

I’m still breathing,

Thanks to the freshly assorted vegetables

Beautifying my food and drink.

I’m still breathing because

You enjoy the poison I give out.

You continue to trade oxygen for my CO².

I have no power to stop them

From felling you.

But I thank God that you’re not alone.

I’ll continually bond with your kind.

My abs are burning,

Legs weak, sweat’s on my body.

The lady is telling me to next.

Ready to go.

Push ups and rotation;

Diamond push ups,

Military push ups.

God! I just want to look fit for the King’s Daughter.

I didn’t sign up for these military trainings.

Days go by, and it gets harder.

My sister wants to know if my new found powers can save me from a speeding bullet,

Or if my eight packs can withstand the ugly tip of a dagger.

If it can’t, she wants me to quit.

I’m definitely not.

Energy and persistence conquer all things.

In the beginning, we attempted

To create a world, devoid of pain.

To each our imperfections, we

Gave head tags. We didn’t forget

To attach the closing tag. For completion sake.

But, the work had barely begun.

We wanted a perfect world.

We only mastered HTML.

Now our creation looks like

A hideous coward.

We must run to YouTube to steal the gift of aesthetics from the CSS god.

I will never make it to heaven.

You cannot tell me that

I will make it there.

All good people go to heaven.

This is it,

My bad deeds outweigh by good deeds.

You cannot tell me that

I won’t go to hell.

Tonight, dark as nothing;

Empty as empty.

If I have to go on without any strength

Left in my bones, just to keep up

With this headache,

I will.

I know I’ll be in the company of the empty.

Firefly

Bottle

Mask

Porridge

Zoom

Lethargy

Treeline

Heat

Strange

Cottage

The zeal to write is dead.

I think lethargy pulled the trigger,

Or took flight on the wings of a firefly.

Or maybe, the intense heat of emotions

Finally turned my writings into a pot of porridge,

To be fed to the monsters struggling with my sanity.

Tigers! Tigers! Fire burning bright;

Trees caught up in darkness.

Do you think I’m joking with what my eyes saw?

Ye! That’s how surprises come to and fro.

To Amanda, I’m Barzeus.

To Jessica, I’m Mustapha.

Although, I do not have the accent.

I grew up without an accent.

I grew up without love.

And so, I wear this veneer of vanity.

To all the girls I used to love.

I want to have sex

The next time I meet a lady.