Tag Archives: unknown

THE OUTCAST: constipated thoughts of a lonely writer

The lonesome one -totally at peace with himself or numb with loneliness...

The lonesome one -totally at peace with himself or numb with loneliness…

HA! A night without rain again
Leaving me without gain
Outcast thought without pain
As he strolled on the lane

Been ages passing in stages
Living out on life’s fringes
So long it no longer itches
That he can’t always get his wishes

Sun or moon may not shine today
People may stay or stray
Outcast will still sing and pray
Even when it’s Trouble’s day of play

Apparently completely self-satisfied; totally unminding of the world around him and the crazy writer taking his picture.

Apparently completely self-satisfied; totally unminding of the world around him and the crazy writer taking his picture.

Don’t you hiss and hate
He has enough on his plate
You envy his undisturbed state
But don’t see when he’s desperate

Take another look please
See what ruffles his peace
See how he became this
What made him a nutpiece

BACKGROUND: Times I deliberately choose to stroll back from work. This night, I just felt like screaming out and audio-recording my next poem to later find ways of putting the words into writing. I can’t exactly make a song of it because of my scary voice. I found myself talking out loud about this character of my next poem -the Outcast. Need I say passers-by may have thought me mad!

The Outcast doesn’t quite give much care for some of our norms and values. He lives as though he were dead and not part of us. He is somewhat detached from the world we know. We are slightly pissed when he doesn’t show the aggression or passion we expect in some everyday issues. We can’t always expect him to take sides with us. He doesn’t hurt or insult us, and he is mostly calm and composed -maybe a little TOO peaceful/happy, and so we see him as impractical, odd or loose-nutted.

We never realise he has huge issues he is battling with. His concerns for some other thing completely absorb him. His obsession with another life has affected the way he treats this one.

Well then, we do well to call him mad, yes?

As you may have guessed, I didn’t say exactly he was obsessed with because that’s out of my pen, but I know HOW EASY IT IS TO BECOME SOMETHING/ONE ELSE AND YOU ARE NOT EVEN AWARE OF IT!)

Life and The Writer (sequel to Death and The Writer)

The Writer

“Of the few unpleasant species like myself
Even fewer love a happy ending.
But again there are few who won’t care about rules of dark writings
Any more than they’d care about a broken toothpick!”
These thoughts run through the mind of the writer,
As he heads back from the shrink’s cave.
His hair is well combed and like shiny metal.
His eyes glow with eerie warmth and calmness.
An enchanted smile adorns his lips and cleanly shoven chin.
One gently swaying arm holds a baby bird.
There was something beautifully divine about the bird
Even the air smelt divine, almost spiritual
The other arm with shaky fingers holds a white-inked pen.

The victim

The full picture of emptiness
Sitting between calmness and uncertainty,
His throat bears the aftertaste of good food,
Which though sits uneasily in his tommy
In view of his maltreatment and enslavement,
The hole (where the padlock was) remains –
An unforgettable lesson on his lips
As he speaks every day.
His wrists bear marks from the cuffs.
His broken legs are yet unhealed.
His mind is unsure of what to expect
From the writer upon return.

The conversation

Writer(W): Hello friend! How have you fared?
Victim(V): Friend? Hehehehe.
W: As you could guess, I was only being sarcastic calling you friend. Not a chance!
V: As well! Anyway, I have resigned myself to this fate. I know how dying feels. I am well used to it by now. This is your fifth return from your shrink, and I have not fared any better. I have felt my body die, and horror as I felt it come alive again back to your chains. I have felt you drain my hope as you would treat me kindly before you go see your shrink, only to deal worse with me on returning. I have felt my soul die. The corruption of these chains have drained my hope, my light, and what sense of sanity I had left. What more? Oh! You will release me now -the new monster you have created -knowing that I am not the same again? I can’t successfully live a normal life -my sense of humanity, morality and dignity twisted by your darkness.
W: Hahahahaha!!!! Halt your speech there! See who is talking like a philosopher now.
I am wrapping all this up now


And as the victim watches
With the uneasy calmness of one used to pain and suffering,
The writer takes the pen
And in a decisive move
Sticks it in the delicate heart of the heavenly dove.
Frank red blood gushes out.
As the blood flowed,
Something unnatural was happening –
Something damningly darker than any could have imagined,
Or something worthy of engaging the writer’s darkness.
The victim saw the writer’s countenance change.
The final deed has been done!
The writer’s insanity forever satisfied,
He then writes a new story in red.
The victim was set free
From the chains of darkness
By the shedding of another’s blood.
Something snapped in the writer’s dark mind
With his bold move on the dove’s life.
The victim’s story changed
And the writer’s madness was satisfied.
The victim was still in shock
As he was let out of hell.
He looked forward with hope
Into the life ahead of him,
Hoping and praying
He wouldn’t be a monster unleashed –
A likeness of the demon he just left behind in hell.
(Who was still a bit surprised
Because it wasn’t quite how he had planned the happy ending.)

At least, he wasn’t totally dead like the writer.
He could still HOPE and PRAY like a normal human
Who believed in the power of the unseen.