To D-Who also turned out to be an asshole

I thought I was healed

I thought we were sealed

You crept into my dream

Ripped me apart at every seam

I think of your conniving head

Making me fight your wars

And the monsters under your bed

I squirm in protest

Wanting no thoughts of you

All I feel for you now is detest

You were a farce and it is true

I undressed for you

Unashamed of the world

I believed your lies

I shed for your indifferent eyes

It is exactly a year

Now I am here

Hate in my gasp

Bane in your clasp

I hope you come a full circle

I hope nothing good for you

I hope there will be a miracle

I hope I will be renewed

The Wedding Planner-Her big day is his big problem

I want blacks and I want gold

I want a drunken audience

Of penitent Misogynists who are 37 years old

I want chrome lighting and wispy lace tablecloth

Love to loom between my maids and the groomsmen

Like naked flame and a moth

I want Clapton to allure me to my first dance

I want gluttonous orgasms in the dining halls.

I want it all, a fairytale and a romance

I want hook ups to brew in the washroom stalls

I want people to make merry

And tell me they are having a good time

I want the alcohol to overflow

All of whiskey and vodka with a splinter of lime

I want my father to smile when teary eyed

Smart in a tuxedo with a glass in one hand

Telling his friends how much he loves this bride

My maid of honor she is the one, incontestably.

Stood by me through the thick and thin of my garter

We would have spent hours picking the centerpieces

Threatening the tailor and his sartor.

I do not know yet if it is the marriage that I seek

Not even the companion or soul mate as much

It is my friend, the wedding that enchants me

Call me an idiot or even an unassuming freak

Where the fuck on earth are you??

To Ayesha-Who inspired this poetry, it may seem like an excerpt from her online ramblings...but what to do?birds of the same feather....

I’ve met the asshole

Also the one who would cajole

Shacked up with the one who is aloof

Met the man who thought my love had no proof

Been the second fiddle

His sneers were really a riddle

There was the sweet talker, the drunken fucker

Also the one who would pull his face into an ugly pucker.

I looked for you in all of them

You were there in bits and parts

I looked for you

Each time slicing a piece of my heart

Show up you son of a bitch

Before I have only a sliver of love left

Before I become crazy cat lady

Or a snickering old witch

I tell myself I am a feminist

Not bra burning enough

Turn up sooner you dickhead

And call my silly bluff

Ive waited and talked about you

Ive missed you when drunk

I know you are perfect

And I picture you to be a hunk

I sit here and you are wasting time

As I waste my good years

For you making a rhyme.

Of Black panties and Sapphire cufflinks

I have spent several hours in the last year watching my boss haggle over a few hundred thousand dollars as I chewed at the tip of my pen, eyed the Russian Geologist and wondered with a sigh if I have masked my curiosity well.

I have walked into plush offices and shook hands with the stalwarts of this industry. Who do not, after years of experience realize am all talk no cock kind of person. We have spread charts of seismic data supporting Palynofacies analysis on a table over a rainy day and contemplated the Bitumen content of the yielding oil. Never once have they noticed my mind stray to a different kind of spreading after shoving all papers from the table aside.

I get dressed each morning, gawking at the mirror every single time and wondering if I have concealed my lust well. If there are traces of any lace peeking through the crisp cottons and polyesters.

I am now used to being the only woman in a 200 man ‘bored’room. Not an eyebrow is raised nor a question. They would send me an official email from a different country while working late with a slight vulnerable undertone. They copy me with a 100 other men and address the emails as Gents and Miss A with a smiley Over a few drinks, they would call me sweetheart in a foreign language that I know. They protect me with ferocity when hit on by a random at a bar. They would touch my arm and whisper in my ears on a night when it has not drizzled enough but the Bar has no place to breathe.

However, I am not the one they want to go home to. I am not the one whose education they sponsor and buy pink dead bunnies for. I wear pants. I am their equal. They might look me up and down when I walk into the room at a staff party wearing chandeliers in my ears and 2-inch heels to show my legs off. They might even picture me without it and leer at me with a knowing smile. However, that is the end of it. I get a lift home and a “good night honey” and on an indiscriminate unwelcome occasion, a pass is made.

In college, I had dreamed of traversing the Himalayan Transect with a knapsack and an energy bar, of living in drab tees on rigsite where the halogen lights burned my skin. I do not remember the transition from Coveralls to Leather shoes happening at all. Mr.Jack Daniels was not a part of my plan. Although Now he is an inherent element of my lonesome evenings spent at picturesque locations with Chrome lighting and Maître Ds.

It feels good to be a part of the corporate scene in this Industry. To be monitoring Mother Earth to cough up enough barrels to grease the motor that runs this world. It does feel good to be updated on a 100 orange collars working relentlessly to devoid the continental shelves of Oil.

P.S I am not complaining at all.

A Dame The Knight made her...

You dear sir, you, who demand a piece of my heart shall not win it with such ease. You sir will woo me into the realms of a world where I am your queen and you are dysfunctional in my absence. You will prove to me that it is not glories you seek on this battlefield of life, but your willingness to give them up for me. A gallant ambitious man nay hard to find, but it is a man who will put me on a pedestal that is.

You should try and not chomp on the veal chop at the dinner table were we sit or leave the fine cutlery I pick, unappreciated. The golds, the mauves, and the lilacs have a reason they are the hue of our life. I want a royally magnificent life and I fancy a chair with thin rods for a backrest. I desire the ease of calling the blacksmith and carpenters at the snap of my fingers. I want them to saw and mould a world where we can enjoy our love in comfort. You would know I like flowers best to be potted and not dead in a vase. Nevertheless, my Good Sire you will send me a bunch of geraniums interspersed with Bougainvillea. You, my lord will have maidens await me with a hand towel to wipe my face and one to slip shoes on to my wan feet.

I will await you every night in our chambers to smother you with love and to knead your drawn muscles as the ochre light compliments the purple sheets that are entangled between our legs. However, you should presume that it is me who needs your body to plaster itself against mine as I have spent the whole day tiring myself out to make our abode a better place.

I will sit by the window my Knight, waiting for you to ride in gallantly after that long journey you have had. I would have dismissed the Servants to their Quarters, lit the house up in candles, fired up the hearth, and lay out a spread of the best meats in town.  However, I want you to think of this as more tedious than all the wars you have fought outside before returning to my arms.

I ask naught for a 100 Florins of Gold and Silver or a hundred yards of the choicest velvet, all I ask of you is to deal with the fact that I might not be a woman who powders her nose every hour or embellish my hairclip with tiny sparkly stones. But I am high maintenance of a unusual variety and thou shalt want to enjoy maintaining my whims and fancies my lord.

Slithering to let go...

She hissed from her lairs. Her Sinewy luminescent eyes had a glair that could smolder what her fiery breath could not. She moved with the sinuosity of the Rhine, engulfing the darkness that swathed her. She growled and yowled at anything that moved beyond her trapdoor.

She was wounded. The scars oozed a mixture of blood and deceit. She clanked her rusty shackles every time they slid the food in. There was no difference whether her eyes were open or shut. There was an outburst of the omnipresent warm tears of pain always.

Days rounded up into weeks and weeks into months. T

The wounds still hadn’t healed. Nevertheless, they were there. The scabs were misunderstood for poisonous encrustations. She was untouchable, unspeakable of; she was a revolting thought to all of them who stood outside her cell and heard her snarls subdue into whimpers.

At sunset, she sat by her wee window one evening, Shame faced at her stark nakedness that had cloaked her for months now. She seethed and fumed like a Strombolian. She decided that she had to chip the shackles off. One molecule after another. She did. She did so splendidly. The soft voices on the outside soon diminished into pointless whispers. The scabs fell off. The sun had set but she saw the light. She glided laconically into freedom. The snap of the bondage was terse and brusque enough to break her heart into a million shrapnel. There was one last howl that ended her labor. She was born again. She crept out like the serpent that had gotten her there in the first place. That was her last moment in her reptilian form….She was renewed again...She was healed now…

To C who turned out be an A-Hole

You left a purple bruise on me. The one only I could see in the shame faced confines of my blue tiled bathroom as the icy needles of water hit my head, spiraled down my tresses, and mingled with all other waste and into the sewers of this city.

I had stirred in me the emotions that I had locked into one corner of my bludgeoned heart before I met you on that fateful day.

I had assumed you were my long lost serendipity. I looked at the happy couples swarming the streets by the sea and thought we were one of them. Holding hands as the sun pierced through our sunglasses.

You turned out to be a con artist of the strangest variety. You proofread your act before performing at my theatre. You enunciated, dramatized, and romanticized your emotions that a hardhearted slut like me bought every bit of it.

I am ashamed of having acquainted myself with you. To have let your tongue slide into my ears and coherently lie to me. To let you kiss my cheek a 1000 times before a million betrayals. To have let you fuse your full mouth with my forehead in a liaison of deceit. Espionage it was. You are as pure as the driven snow and I still might have pangs of attraction mingling with hateful venom for you every time you text me something sassy.

I think of your grin, as lopsided as your intentions and your torso that stood two heads taller than I did on that sunny day. It rams me into beliefs like “All good looking rich men are a farce like you’’

I probably misjudged you. Did not see through my rose tinted glasses that you were looking for a torrid affair while I dreamt of fixing you eggs Benedict on a slothful Sunday.

I probably should have believed my gut instinct and known you were a callous bastard.