Poetry

Mine

Is my uterus too loud for you? 

Does the tumult of flowing blood offend you? Perhaps you are against life

My lips are meant to be lined with red pigment, plump and ready for a smooch. But they are open and gaping at the ideas you have about my freedom. My choice 

The flesh of my thighs has to cater to your taste. Subtle curves,  not too much. Wiggling softness in all the right places. I’m not your art project. 

If my bones sticking forth poke your eyes, if my jiggling flesh slaps your vision, if my scars burn your cornea – look right on. 

It’s all mine. MINE

Poetry

Land of the liberated

Her lips are frayed, her voice is numb. Her heart is heavy, her eyes are wrung. She’s marched and sang. Pounded the streets that were once chambers of freedom. But the man at the podium doesn’t hear her pleas to stop. The man in the big, old, white house. Slowly the dream named after her, starts to crack. People worldwide watch the show – some clap. Her spirit still rings out, as she claims that she’ll never stop. Always believing in the greater good, she keeps marching on. Red, blue and white are her stripes. A blend of vibrant colors, all unified. History has witnessed her stand taller then all. But will she now stumble, crumble and fall? 

Maalika Kazia

Poetry

Yours

If you are the artist,

let me be your canvas

Paint me in gold at dusk

Sweep across my cheeks,

the brush of your hand

Draw me in the image of your fantasy

If you are my painter,

make me your masterpiece

Color me in hues of pearl

Allow me to shimmer on the mantle of your heart

If you are my potter,

mould my skin to your will

Touch the clay of my flesh,

and bend it to your taste

Refine it with your breath

And let me be alive in your hands

_____________

Featured Image:- http://www.afremov.com

Poetry

Marked

Sitting in the coffee shop with large, orb like eyes. She see’s everything. The colors shift and their shapes change. But nothing is hidden. How foolish human kind can be, so easily enslaved by their emotions.

Narenia’s eyes do not require the sweeping look she gives the shop to spot him. He is bright as the sun. The pure gold aura which is coveted beyond all becomes him. Even the humans can sense something special in their midst. Many turn as he walks in, and Narenia can see their vibrations alter as he passes by.

“Which one is she?” mutters Santos. Of all the dull tasks his grandfather could have given him on a Saturday afternoon, this had got to be the worst. He could be at the beach right now, surfing or chatting up the blonde life guard. Carrying the bag of tools he had to deliver, Santos squinted around the coffee shop looking for an unfamiliar face. She was not from around here after all. He spotted Milena and waved, hoping he looked cool while doing it.

Oh, that could be her! The woman with gigantic eyes and gleaming red hair. His grandfather had failed to mention that she was young. And pretty.

“Hi there! I – I think you must be Narenia?” he called while approaching her table in the corner of the room.

Why was she looking at him in such a peculiar manner, though Santos. It was as if she was assessing him.

“Why yes I am. You must be Santos? Your grandfather told me I’d meet you here.”

“Yup, that’s me. Here is your delivery – if you do need a hand using those tools, I can help. Grandpa taught me a few tricks,” he said proudly puffing out his chest. The sun bounced off his golden curls.

Well, he was charming, mused Narenia. Perhaps it would be easier to talk to him under normal pretense. After all, she had no idea how to use these tools, let alone fix her car. Here was her mechanic of choice.

“Sure thing. Why don’t you pass by the place I’m crashing at this evening. Say, 7:30?”

“Where are you staying?”

“Over at Mrs. Jonas’s.”

“Great! 7:30 it is. And get ready, I’m an excellent teacher,” said Santos with a wink.

“Oh I’m sure I can teach a few things myself. Goodbye Santos.”

Santos watched her walk to the door, red hair swaying in her wake. Men from each side of the coffee shop turned too. Some looked disappointed indeed. The young man with the golden curls however, looked hopeful.

Poetry

Reach

So close it appears, yet so far away it seems.

Bring me to my destiny, fulfill my dream.

Photo / Pexels

With shut eyes and pounding heart, I reach forward.

Don’t let it pass. Breathe in the melody of the song. The tune emitting from your soul.

Dance in the rain, bleed out your pain and just reach out…