THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

                                           The children of dreamers Emerge from the wombs of their mothers,  Into a world, they watched inside,  Their aura make the sun jealous as they make their first cry,  Holding all the energies in their little hands.  They make their way to create the utopias their mothers viewed,  Charging up at every critical juncture With a feisty mind.  They watch their words becoming actions,  Crawling out of every dark cave that traps them,  Breaking the gardens of inappropriations,  Guarding every door of justice.  The children of dreamers love and love,  Never making their hearts go jaded,  Their love conspires to form a wormhole connecting dreamers,  Where they plan their world.  Their magnificent dreams,  Challenging the realities,  Lure many to sabotage the plans,  Running tests on them,  Questioning their parenthood,  And jealousy whines like a wicked dog.  The children of dreamers  dance at the ecstasy of their threatening identities,  Some would term

    Every week I come to the lake,  To talk and look at you as always,  But sometimes I feel you don't listen And you have gone too far.  I remember the day we met,  You came to me like summer,  Bright and shining  Fresh and green as the summer garden.  The tiny pimples on your cheek Said hello to me.  I remember how we connected,  And before we know,  We became inseparable,  Like a neatly solved jigsaw puzzle,  We solved each other.  Our friendship thrived through hard times,  And we survived most storms together,  Seeking shelter in each other's arms.  But never did I realise the mechanics of the mind,  Your mind worked in mysterious ways and whenever I tried to enter,  You shut the doors and sealed them.  You never reached out for help or a tissue,  But kept on amusing me with your buffoonery.  It was only when your cold body was taken out of the lake,  I realized you were more than a buffoon,  You danced with a heavy heart,  And I saw the bruises from dancing on your cold l

  I hear murmurings from the graveyard In the West of the town,  Of married women,  Dead and disappeared years ago.  I wonder what a time they had,  What a life they lived.  Their husbands weep and weep and forget them,  They praise how they looked after their women,  Covering in glittery gold,  Buying them silly silks,  Giving makeup for a make-over.  But still, the women murmur,  Their voices seem to break the edges of tombs.  They force the sun to dry out the flowers on them quickly.  I lowered my face and listened to the tombs,  It seems their lipstick was revolting,  Their eyelashes lifted to show the desperation.  They talk about the lies they had to live through,  In fear of strangers' pointing fingers on getting a hint on their unhappy marriages.  They call out their abusive partners,  Told me to look for the broken bangles behind the kitchen for proof,  The blood-stained clothes that were never washed,  Lay hidden from neighbours and relatives,  Who praises the happy coupl

  Most nights we are alone,  Trying to form a shape,  Wrecking with the pain of a bleeding heart,  In desperation to flatten the lump formed in the throat,  Trying to keep it as calm as possible Not to wake our partners beside us.  Most nights we are alone,  Clenching onto pillows,  Playing loud music,  Pretending sleep,  While we writhe in pain.  Most nights we are alone,  Thinking of faces that promised company,  Faces of people we assumed would hug us,  Hands that we thought would caress us,  And talks that we registered would soothe us.  Most nights we are alone,  Peeling off our gender,  Searching for an identity,  Making sense of our essence,  Organizing our anger,  Revolting against the structure,  Living past the breaking point,  Storming a mysterious body.  Most nights we are alone,  Cursing the dreams we believed,  Blaming the instincts that spurred on dubious actions,  Marking the words we spat out without tasting and Lines we crossed, forgetting our position in the 'sys