Winter is knocking at the door. Woolen clothes and trendy boots all on sale for the ones who has little or no knowledge of what slavery means, but that is okay no one here has a problem with how you think. Death and unholy alliance between the nickel and the penny agreed upon several missions, crisped on the jungle, doomed for an unconventional silence and laughing at the riot which existed only in their mind. What does the endearing machines do and does not, what human being is capable of and what is the height of appreciation one achieves when an ultimate sacrifice was made to ease the pain which has been a medium of our existence for a long time. Between man and woman and God and the wonders of the mind which can be deformed and reformed, love forms the basis of the answer and madness a realm in which it operates.
She didn’t belong to any guild, not to pirates or the poets,
Daddy’s little angel, she was not. He left her-
-mom in torn blouses seduced men for money,
At 12 she had a reputation, why so early?
Blended in blood, seeking for loneliness,
Refuge too was a miser, she forsook her,
Dampen soul, she knew not how to cry,
It was just a collage of nightmares she dared to dream.
Foolish was her heart, she fell for a ragged,
He said she make him suicidal. No, she didn’t meet him,
Crime, he was a different kind of criminal,
All he talked was sex, drugs, guns and sex again,
He said he didn’t care about her, glad she won’t spend a penny on him,
Said he was not the loyal kind so he kept a cat, whose name was Jerry the dog.
He said she make him suicidal. No, she hasn’t met him,
He was just like a poetry which the poet himself couldn’t understand,
He wept, he wrote, longed for younger women,
He loved their dirty pillows, high heels and expensive lingerie,
But he was broke, those women didn’t keep him.
He said she make him suicidal, he missed her,
That’s bad, he was weak,
She thought she was not attracted to him,
He was losing his charm, she has already yawned twice.
Like a routine he called her up on Thursday,
Her life was not a medieval novel, her pity didn’t turn into love.
In her apartment, he came with a gun,
She heard a gunshot, did he shoot himself?
No, the blood on the floor was hers,
He said she make him suicidal, then why the hell he shot her?
Damn!
There is no such thing called happy ending, but it is rude to say those bunch of optimist souls are banal. However, objections are over those people who make their lives brighter and warmer by making others' lives colder and darker. But you do not have to agree on what the defense comes from the other end. When we hear 'ship!’ we don't visualize a ship being captured by some ugly pirates, we frame our imagination somewhat of a ship sailing in the blue pristine waters of some ocean, one of the five oceans. But, dang, there are terms like ‘shipwreck’, ‘cruise vessel mishaps’, ‘ship explosion’ and more. So what? There can be as many personalities in your story, some characters you might live and some characters which you yourself will detest, the irony is you being the creator of these characters your likeness and your dislikes should matter less to you are more to the people who will be the best judge by their right to interpret. Anyway, occasionally we can all milk a cow without making her say moo moo…
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