Tag Archives: self

A nail to the head


(Source online, unknown)

I now stand tall proud loser
Gracefully holding my head
Empty of any sensibility
Hence easy to bear
My heart beating passionately easily
Because of the hole in my chest
Letting out the heavy sea of blood
The heart normally has to cope with

So, after my head empties out,
What next?

I boldly display my monkey-tail
Put up as I scamper away in frightful flight
From all the stark raving difficulties
Faithfully stalking my daily life like psychopaths

Then banging my head on the floor
In manly resignation to the insanities chasing me
To end up contacting ifeelshadows.com
So the kind Doc. can help nurse my mental bruises

I throw hands up in the air waving like at a musical rave
Poetically exclaiming the hopelessness of it all
Before even my penned hands get tired and chained
For this whole homicidal act on the dignified person of poetry

And I lie on my damp bed
Stinking un-bathed soul
Drenched with rain of sorrows
So cold in this life I can’t get dry

Never mind I am shivering epileptically
And I have to cover myself
Keeping me further damp, sticky and stinky
Yet You(God) don’t stop

But in all this call me sad –a sad, sad man
Because I see even no relief or sense in suicide
I am no judge in this frame of mind
But least, I was sane enough to analyse my hopelessness

What do You want from me
Will You be happy when I let it all go
Throw out my life
And hang myself on a cross?
Continue reading

The Writer and Death. (Warning: a dark writing!)

The writer

“Except for the other unpleasant species
Like myself,
Most don’t welcome
The dark theme of death.
Like I care!”
These thoughts run through
The mind of the writer,
As he screams foul
To the degree of howl.
His afro is dishevelled
Like one electrocuted.
His ears are taut like of a rabbit-on-heat.
His eyes are hard like a frozen ram’s.
Spit dishonours his lips and beard.
In one passionately fitful arm
He holds his pen.
In the other angrily convulsing
He holds a spiked whip.

The victim

The victim is on the floor –
A figure of life’s scrawny tail,
A specimen of minuscule dignity.
He has swollen cuts on the head.
Padlocks on his lips in shame –
Can’t even taste simple joys of life,
His wrists cuffed handicapped –
Unable to do things he always wanted,
Can’t reach basic necessities for life,
Can’t reach anyone to help him.
His back laced with weals,
His health suffers bad.
If wishes were horses,
This man would escape this hell.
But his legs are tied.
The writer adds a “cherry on top”
And breaks his legs -for insurance!

The conversation

Victim(V): Would ask why, but I doubt I’d understand your complex speeches.
Writer(W): I promise to make it simple.
V: Ok! Please tell me then -why would you want my life’s story this way?
W: because I have never written about someone dying before. I am sorry it had to be you, but whomever I chose would still have complained like you are doing. Just accept your fate. Besides, I have saved you from a meaningless existence. Do you know the many people whose lives follow scripts of fame, wealth, romance, and the whole parade of epicurean pleasures. Cliched vanities! So, if I hadn’t castrated you, what would you have achieved before old age did? Reared children like rabbits to propagate this meaningless existence, or what else? Further, doesn’t your Christianity teach death as way to life? “Die to yourself!”
V: I knew it! You started simple and you went off too deep. How does your mind work like that?
W: Aha! Glad you still have some sense of homour. Anyway, I am also caught in a net of my own. I grew up to find my mind this way. Wish I could help it, but I guess the process of changing my mind-that-makes-complex-sentences-and-is-writing-out-your-life-story-just-for-the-sake-of-a-piece-on-death might as well be as torturous as yours. So, do I kill myself just to shut my mind?
Here, let me also reward you by making your death quick and less dramatic.

And for hours the writer whiplashes coldly at the victim,
Screaming till his eyes would pop,
His pen running out of ink.
“Break his pride.
Add an extra pair of cuffs
To his elbows.
Make a v****a where his p***s is.
Add an extra hole to him,
A dent to his identity.
Hey! Here, see his legs going numb.
Quickly, time to bring the scorpions.
Let the pain exceed the numbness
Oh! Let’s pity him and let him lose blood fast.
Hehehe! Not too fast.
Please get 2 pints of blood ready for transfusion.
Let’s see which wins out –
The blood transfusion or the haemorrhage.
But please, kindly drain his heart of blood and hope gradually, gently, mercifully.
Yes, is the s** change surgery about to commence?
Anaesthesia please?
I am afraid not! That’d be unkind.
Oxygen mask please.
We don’t want him to die from surgery.
(I still have a reputation to uphold
As a doctor who must do no harm!)

All the while bystanders watched –
Youtube, facebook, twitter, wordpress, google+…
And when it was done,
The man survived.
The transfusion won out.
He was neither dead nor alive –
Just hanging.
The worst kind of death!
Better he had died into rest.
The writer seeing this,
He cooled, combed his own hair,
Shaved his beard and changed his undies.
He unlocked the victim’s padlock,
And the attendants gave him some food.
Then the writer called
To confirm his own appointment
With his shrink/Psychiatrist.

Odd, right, inevitable


He turned to face me
Speaking in an endearing manner
How could I resist him
When he talked like that
I was not even paying attention
To his exact words
I did not exactly hear him say
“See that tree”
I was all dreamy when he said
“Go to the tree”
I shook at his deep rich voice not hearing
“Climb the tree”
I was hypnotically following him saying
“Hang yourself on the tree”

Then I snapped awake
“What!!! Hang myself?”

Fully recovered from my stray
I hear his voice clearly
No illusions now
I turn away from him with sure steps
And go to hang myself