Someone you use

This song says volumes...!! Here it is ...

Just a shoulder to cry on

That's all I've been to you

Just someone to rely on

When your world is empty and blue

I'm just someone you call dear

Anytime you choose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

I'm just someone you can talk to

And that's all I'll ever be

Just a clown you can laugh with

Someone to treat you as you need

I'm just a fool you can love on

Any time you choose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

Don't you know when you need me

My little heart just can't refuse

I'm just someone who loves you, baby

I can't win and I can't lose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

It is because I love and love so deeply

That I know what you say even before you say it. After your showers of words are done I hear the things that you don’t say…

That every waking moment you linger in my mind and every sleeping moment you explore my dreams…

That for every ounce of laughter from your heart; mine multiples with tenfold joy…

That I can cry your unshed tears so that your eyes should never know sadness…

That if you sit next to me I don’t need anything else…

That when you call out my name it rings like a poem in my ear…

That when I watch you sleep I know the silence that blankets you keeps me warm too...

That for each wound that you receive I bleed a lifetime for you...

That your childhood joys become the reasons for my smiles and your sorrows the reason for my tears...

That for each unspoken wish that you might have I have a hundred prayers that follow it...

That I love you for all that you are for all that you will ever be....

It is because I love and love so deeply...

For you... Everything... A thousand times over...

For you... Anything

My Love...

Somewhere someone is thinking of you. Someone is calling you an angel. This person is using celestial colors to paint your image. Someone is making you into a vision so beautiful that it can only live in the mind. Someone is thinking of the way your breath escapes your lips when you are touched. How your eyes close and your jaw tightens with concentration as you give pleasure a home. These thoughts are saving a life somewhere right now. In some airless apartment on a dark, urine stained, whore lined street, someone is calling out to you silently and you are answering without even being there. So crystalline. So pure. Such life saving powers you have when you smile. You will never know how you have cauterized my wounds. So sad that we will never touch. How it hurts me to know that I will never be able to give you everything I have.

While I waited for you...

Is it me or the shadows that write?
Must my words rhyme just right?

Legs clad in skinny jeans
Flavored smoke and java beans

Communist Manifesto of a farce
Amber eyed junkie high on grass

Iambic pentameter
My rhymes calculator.

Words that amble along
Some sham of a song plays in the background.

Hot coffee now gone cold
A young heart pretends to be old

Crowds of people swarm in
Rock and drugs and sex with women.

Shadows plays of our lives
Low down lows and way up highs...

The burden of freedom,

Questioning of the rightness of things

And reading the truth backwards.

Once you are gifted with wings is when you long to fall down.

Once you have tasted the cool waters of innocence, is when you desire the parched desert sands.

The absolute horror makes you seek out beauty.

And within the realms of destruction you want to build.

The world of opposition, the world of contradiction.

There is no such thing as a question answered.

There are only answers that seek questions

What will you do with answers, they are redundant,

They only leave you wanting.

There are no wings.

There are no roots.

There is no breath.

You are a moment.

You are eternity.

Realization…..

The dawn of your destruction.

While I try to be sweet and such

A sort of revelation occurred to me while I was talking to a "client" this evening. When the man was deep in discussion about the scores of certain agents who I evaluated a few days ago, all I could think of was... "Jeeez! That is such a wrong choice of hair color!! I mean, some honey blond?! Who was your role model? Ru Paul?!" At such times auto-pilot takes over and makes the appropriate remarks and uses all the technical terms that shows that I know my stuff. However the client's honey colored hair made me want to burst out into one of my unholy giggling fits! "No Mary... Behave!" While my super-ego doled out booming commands of 'corporate etiquette' and stuff, I just wanted to jump onto that desk of his and do a little tap dance on his lap top!

But if Mrs. Pais from school was here now, she would have told me that it was very unbecoming of a lady to tap dance on the laptop of a gentleman, however atrocious his hair color was. So for once I paid heed to what she had to say and refrained from showing off my dancing shoes.

Monotony has surfaced like a dead fish with is big dead fish eye staring at nothing in particular. And I'm stuck looking at that damn fish and trying to do a post postmortem of what went wrong. Not because its my job, but because I have nothing better to do.

The only saving grace to these insipid days are my conversations with Lin and Manal. We talk about general things of concern, how Infy people don't have a clue of what they are doing, or of the recent gossips, or just usual random ranting that serves no purpose whatsoever. Perhaps, it is because when I speak to them Language and speech become redundant. They can't hear or speak, so when I do communicate with them, it brings with it such freedom that language with holds from you. Perhaps thats the cause for this monotony, the realization the obsolete nature of language. Ironically, if it wasn't for language, this conversation would not have taken place.

"You taught me language; and my profit on't Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language."
~Caliban
(1:2:365-367)
The Tempest

Mi Amore

Tonight I can write the saddest lines... Somehow Neruda will never cease to amaze me. I believe he wrote for me and me alone. Its so private. While everyone runs around with their little bits of heaven... He has given me my own Empyrean Fields... Muchos Gracies

Never Seek to Tell thy Love

Never seek to tell thy love
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears--
Ah, she doth depart.

Soon as she was gone from me
A traveller came by
Silently, invisibly--
O, was no deny.

William Blake

Current Mood: In need of Creambuns

Some how I seem to have fallen into this time warp that insists on taking me back to the days of yore, when Friends became Sisters and Brothers became Enemies. I never had the luxury of having mommy dear wait at home for my arrival to serve me warm food with warm love and other such fuzzy things. I held the key to my home with the same responsibility that Spider-man felt when a city was attacked by some Toxic-mutant-out-to-rape-your-womenfolk thing. It was my scimitar, my key to the city if you please.

So there I was a swarthy seven year old hauling my luggage up 3 floors to my humble hole in the wall. Now BDA doesn’t believe in privacy they believe in “You are your neighbors entertainment” theory. Hence everything had to go through the keen myopic eyes of my neighbor, Rosy Aunty.

Rosy Aunty was wed to George Uncle who made 2 kids, John Lorcin and Winny No middle Name. They were staunch Mellu Catholics who came from Kottayam or Trivandrum I can’t recall clearly. But I do remember with startling clarity their house (considering the fact that I spent more time there than in my own house).

It was no big shakes, the walls were always peeling off, the old Table always homed cockroaches and the only interior decorating that one could find there was the stains on the walls left behind by mosquitoes who wern't quick enough for us. The Mosquito Killing Championships began early May when the days got hot and sticky. These were the days when Honest Indian Women developed Honest Indian Sweatpatchs in their Honest Indian Blouses that covered their Honest Indian Armpits. These were the days when George Uncle used to unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt (which somehow was always sky blue). He never had much hair on his head, most of it might have revolted against the idea and decided to re-root themselves on his chest instead. He always had an oily grin for you at any given point of time. If it was time for Ganesh Bidis then you can expect a couple of songs from him. Invariably the songs used to be from the movie "Chemmein". My own rendition of the song can be dealt with in another post. But right now, time to concentrate on my Mellu roots.

It began there, my initiation into mellu-land. I was made to eat things that were only deep fried in coconut oil. I ate only beef (It wasn't a bad word in the mellu household). Chaiya was mandatory while Uncle George gave us a lecture on Comrade KNP Namoodaripillai.

Fridays were rosary days. I was master of the rosary in Malayalam (my own version of course) no one bothered to correct me. So till this day I say a very Strange Hail Mary in Malayalam.
Winnie taught me a few things, they are as follows:

1. When playing the role of the dying older sister if you don't stick your tongue out, it dosn't count that you are dead.
2. When asked to chose between your "bestest friend" and your brother, you bloody well chose your bestest friend.
3.No matter how hard you try you can never blow a hot water bag like a balloon.
4. Curd rice always goes well with beef. And most importantly
5. After doing number 2 you wash your hands with dettol.

Things George Uncle taught me:
1. Kaadilina kare poono re....
2. Ganesh bidis costs 3 rupees for a pack.
3. If you ever smoke, smoke only Ganesh bidis.
4. When you say "patti" always add a "thooo" before it.
5. "Ninda kundi" is a perfectly legitimate answer to any question.
6. By learning a certain Malayalam rhyme, you could turn out to be a "wife beating bastard".

These are the life lessons I learn and re-learn everyday. Perhaps the reason I run back to that twisted childhood so often these days, is because there is no one there to tell me... "Don't dream, come back to reality." Most of my childhood was spent in my head, And Winnie's house was the only reality I knew back then.

Cream buns....

Time check: 01:16 AM.

I recall a time when I was say 5ish (looked 8 though) when life was much simpler. The highlight of the day was when the 'dab dab-man' came with his magical steel trunk filled with creambuns and butter biscuits and other fresh-from-the-oven goodies. Somehow to a pudgy five year old the steel trunk seemed magical, it seemed bottomless, it seemed like the steal trunk was something out of the Bible... it could feed 10,000 and still have a few creambuns to spare. It was maned by a very stoic looking man. Had I been distracted enough I would have asked him his name, but I had other pressing matters to attend to. Like scan his steel trunk to see which bun had the most cream on it. With an engineer's eye I'd pick out the one I thought Biggest, measure it with the practiced eye of a veteran eater of hundreds of creambuns, pay him his 3 bucks and scoot to the 3rd floor where I lived.

Mom was also pleased with the arrival of the dab dab-man (so christened by me because he used to bang the steel goodies filled trunk to announce his arrival). Once my weekly quota of cream bun was satisfied, I didn't desire much in life. She recalls to this day how I used to sit by the window and nurse that single bun for close to an hour. First I'd eat edges (the cream-less part) then with the grand flourish that only a five year old bun-lover can muster, I'd begin work on the best part... the creamy part. Ah...! the joy it brought me...

The dab dab man might have joined the bakery revolution and bartered his magical steel trunk for a small bakery that might be called "Cee Jee Best Bakery". But little does he know the immense joy he brought a strange little girl who lived at B-32 1219 BDA Flats Austin Town Bangalore forty seven.

A boy named Su

Coarse black hair parted at the center
A little big boy read about dementors.
Happy with his sambar and curds rice
Loves to bargain about corriander price.

Mother shaped like a globe
Father has hairy ear lobe
Little big boy loves to study
Maths,computers and Indian sociology.

Born as Subramaniyam Sheshachalapathi
Till the age of 14 an incessant bed-wetter was he.
But now he hides behind his specs.
Obviously fearing the opposite sex.

Little big boy wanted to be cool!
So he tried a backsummersault in the swimming pool.
So there he was all right and ready.
Little boy Su sans his chaddies.

Time came for Su to get marry.
Oh boy! Wasn't he in a hurry!
Every night he dreamed
Of a silky saree falling at the seam.

When the day did arrive
Little man Su now became a big boy.
Remembering all the advice he read in Women's Era
Big boy Su tried his stunts on poor Meera.

Now after blinking a couple of times
Big boy Su is teaching his son nursery rhymes.
Poor Meera has now transformed into a witch,
Leaving Su the much detested position of being her bitch.

So thats the story of a boy named Su
Was he in the US he would have played some blues.
Unfortunatly he's stuck with traffic jams and beating wives
Poor Su, prayed for forks but all he got was knives.

Miracle Workers...

Doesn't exactly have the same ring as "sex workers" but then ultimately thats what we are doing. And by WE I mean the depraved lot who parade around as Trainers ( the professionals not the bras). Hired by slutty corporates whose sole existence depends directly upon the oral gratification they can provided their melanin deprived boss across the seven seas.

A conversation triggered off this vehement outpouring (rather jaded at this point). While I was sitting there appropriately dressed but uncomfortable as straight man in gay bar, we feel into conversation about random things. Good times. Great pizza. Then I get a phone call. The lady on the other end is supposedly my colleague and she has some information for me. Here I must pause and give due attention to her accent. Imagine you had a telly that played only one Australian channel and suntv. Thats it. Nothing else. And you being the fidgety fart that you are have to keep switching channels. Imagine the cacophony that would result. Thats exactly how she sounds. Like a friggin kangaroo high on sambar. Anyhoo... I respond to her appropriately, "Yes, sure.. I'll meet you on the 4th floor... The meeting is postponed?! Oh thats a pity.. Yes.. Park5.. of course... I'll see you there.. Take care... bye." The lady sitting with me presently gives me the look as one would give a two headed goat or summat. "Why did you speak like that?!"....
..."Erm... like what?"
"Like.... 'oh... look at me... I have such a briddish accent' and shyt." This is still punctuated by that look she is giving me.
"Well part of my job profile man... They pay me to sound like a friggin brit...and as you can clearly see I do a sucky job of it."

Scoff...

She gets back to her chocolate fantasy and we resume the conversation about better things. But that look and that blatant statement was cooking in the backburner. Why the hell am I doing this? Teaching a bunch of wankers to speak in "Polished English"... with the "stiff uffer lif". Why am I turning each one of these poor innocent MTI rooted buggers into glo-ball citizens?? What am I trying to attain?

I for one am a stickler for identity. Make your own, however turd like it is.. it doesn't matter.. at least its your own turd. What am I doing with these kids? Making them into globally accepted turd bags?

Then the thought occurred to me. These kids walk into these BPOs especially the one which I work for, thinking, they have arrived. Fancy floors with bling bling inside of the tile. Funky Otis lifts with those shiny chrome doors where you can adjust your dupatta, tie and pull that wad of booger out of your nose thats shyly peeping out. They mesmerize them with their fancy toilets. For someone who is used to have tall blades of grass tickle their bums when they are relieving themselves of burden, this is sophisticated machinery. "Whaat? you have to sit... like you are sitting on a chair and do it?" "But the position is not right, it wont come out clearly." Trust these guys to come up concerns of not articulating correctly form the 'objectionable orifice'. Either ways makes sense don't it... its shite we are talking about... anterior or posterior is immaterial.

So screw all you glow-ball corporate world licking dingleberrys. Look at clearing your own backyard before you go and invest in an ornamental garden in the "Land of Fcuking Opportunity". "They pay better, plus you get exposed to various different cultures, plus the standard of living is high there, plus you hold a green card ( with other things that I shall not mention)" All of this serves what purpose? Just so that you can come back with an accent that met with an accident? Not to mention the dollar bills that dot your wallet. The former smoker of ganesh bidi now only drags Malboros, the hair that was formerly marinated in coconut oil now looks like a cat licked it... what with all the stylehardmyhari gels.

Ah... such is life i say... And unfortunately I am propagating these events. So, due to paucity of money here I am forced to do this. But not for long. There will come a time... when I will stop and get back to my home town of "Dementiahatten" Where I can roam wild and free in the ancient runes of my messed up topography. That day will come soon.... Till then.... Corporate slut it is... Sigh...

Welcome back Ms. Alexander

I'm back home as it were. Fond homecoming prevailed as the mother made pancakes and such. The father just behaved in a father like fashion. Enough said.

So the feeling isn't exactly of jubilation. Sort of "whatthefuckhaveidone"...

Yeah... I'm supposed to be thrilled and whatnot. Homo sweet Homo. But I suddenly begin to crave the lack of human beings. It takes a bit of getting used to. Suddenly there are shoulders to rub with, there are people to bump into on the footpath. The yuppies have crawled out of the wood work along with the slick marble looking laptops. The air begins to smell of condescension. Yeech...!

I miss the kanada songs that were played in the auto when I went to work. I miss paying 12 bucks "akka minnnimum fayr akka." Back there in MySore, life went at a slower pace. I got dragged into this gig whining and puking, now, I miss the fucker.

I miss that dilapidated old fart of a building I used to stay at. Eva and I successfully managed to scare away a bunch of wankers Od-ing on gogonut oyil and tamil/malayalam/hindi/kanada tele seriels. While night after night they sat and plotted their misirable lives after their favorite actress in the seriels ... Heroin it seems.. Eva and I used to sit in our dingy little room and smoke and bitch and then smoke and bitch some more. Occasionally when I felt dehydrated I would open the door to get some water, and lo and behold a cloud of smoke engulfed me. I doubt that those jasmine wearing turdies ever saw my pretty face, it being covered in smoke most of the time, beside the tear rimmed eyes ( courtesy the serials) didn't provide adequate visual aid as well. But I loved the dramatic pause that took place. Suddenly everything was in slow motion. I fancy a 'requiem for a dream' type music being played in the background. While the lil lamb chops gaped at me and then at the smoke filled gas chamber that I just stepped out of, I grab the much cursed bisileri bottle, which I suspect is filled with water from the loo. Ah, fuck cares, we going to die anyhoo.

But back home I have clean water to drink. Gone are the days when I used to put the glass to my lips and wonder will I live after the first gulp?! Gone are the days when at 3 am if I couldn't find sleep, I'd go looking for it on my terrace. I usually found it on the outline of the Chamundi Hill, slowly it made its way towards me. Vast open spaces sung ancient lullabies to me. Before you know it, I'm lying on the terrace like a some celestial beached whale. Knocked out.

For those of you who know me, you'd probably think that I used to hate it there. "Used" being the operative verb in simple past tense. Funny what we can get used to. Isolation being one of them. A simple freedom that comes with isolation. Not so much there is no one to talk to, but the simple joy that you are not accountable to anyone. No toes to step on, no promises to keep and no miles to go before I sleep.

Well, I'm back now...almost...

Shh.........

You are faced with a blank canvas. Potential energy. It is up to you to convert all this potential energy into kinetic energy. Where do you get your resources? Look within you. May I speak in first person? Or is this my latent self-centeredness taking over. You have to formulate new words to express almost accurately what you feel. Or you are allowed to modify existing words so that they make more sense to you. Artistic freedom, it is called. You treat few words as you would your lover, always partial to them always thinking of them. But then there are other words that you treat like your mistress, you use them in secret. When you’re sure your beloved words don’t fall out of your mouth and linger in the air just to see that promptly following tem out of your mouth are those damn mistress words. And then there are these sounds that serves better than words. You use them quite often. You have created your own language with just mono syllabic sounds. There are times when these sounds serve you better than those words (lovers and mistress) that they make other words seem redundant. They strip language naked and leave you with little shameless bits of sounds that brazenly replace the more sophisticated and clothed language.

So what language do you speak? Do the fall out of your mouth or are they formed with the invisible patterns that you weave with your hands? Or are they a combination of both? With your eyes serving as punctuation marks?

But the most beautiful of all languages is silence. That lovely eloquent silence. What language can best describe the agony and liberation that death brings? Silence… unnecessary words ruin the rendezvous that lovers hearts and eyes share, silence enhances them. After drowning in emotions, a sweet exquisite pain that brings you untold of maddening bliss born of agony and purity, your friends looks into your eyes. Silence is the most articulate.

Silence is divine proof that we were meant do more and feel more. Silence is a hint to a dimension that is higher and deeper at the same time. Silence is that celestial music to which our spirits dance. Silence is you without your desires. Silence is the dot at the end of this sentence.

Now change the question.

Who is a sinner?

The one who bites of the apple? Seeking knowledge?
And what kind of knowledge is dangerous?
If knowledge can kill, then so can life.
In reality it is in dying that we are truly born.
Not in to the flesh. But as an idea,
a floating mote of dust that lingers on the eyelash of some supreme

Creative force. And then that force smiles.(can divinity smile?)
And then does this divine creative force need human tabulations and

Equivalents to be recognized?
We see that force all around. In the arrogance. In the innocence.
The passion that makes us kill. The same passion that makes us love.
The idea. That’s what we are, we are some divine cosmic idea, floating

In arbitrary isolation. There is no greater calling in your life than

To live it. To realize it. To realize the truth. Your truth. Not to

Validate another's truth;
am I starting to build a new religion? Is that what I am doing?
Am I trying to carve a pedestal for myself?
Aren’t we all vain to the point of thinking that we are Special?
What is this specialty?
Do things like this really matter?
Ultimately if you ask too many questions the answers you get will just be

Some more questions.
The trick, yes there is a trick, is to balance.
Everything depends on equilibrium. The balance of good and evil.
The consequence.
One has to do what one has to do.
The fear is real it is human. Don’t become god.
Being god deprives you of glory, and you were made for Glory.

Quando?

Trust is that malevolent kindness that believing in something gives you.

You seek it awkwardly because there is that part of your childhood that it holds. The childhood that you never knew. And that’s why you seek it,
who is a rational human being?
One who trust?

Who is a cynic?

One who doesn’t?
If that be the case there are none of us in the world who are true to the Definition.
There are questions that are asked so that you distract yourself from

The real truth that you seek.
Once they have managed to keep you pre occupied with questions like

This, then it becomes easier to maintain some semblance of peace.

Is there peace. Or are we just pretending to be peaceful?
We are all seekers. We seek that which we don’t know.
There are no morals in knowledge.
There is only revelations and realization.
The fancy word for it is philosophy.
The common word for it is suffering.
No one suffers more than the philosopher.
We are a sorry lot.
We are the ones that deal with the excreta of humanity and look for

Beauty in it.
And the most startling discovery is the finding of beauty in that

Putrid dungeons of thoughts and words.
Makes one question the questions that we have been asking ourselves.
Perhaps I’m not the first one to ask, perhaps there are have been proud

Insanities that have attempted to decipher the code.

The code that binds and programs everything.
What makes us human is the need...to know.

When I'm held together by threads of false comfort, this sense of reality is the most annoying intrusion into my sand castle. I have been dead for a long time; I hate the near-life-experiences that fate throws at me.

Listen...

sounds ...

1. The sound of an old Godrej fridge being closed-the half metallic have rubber suction sound- is what a mind that is closed to any ideas might sound like.

2. The shudder of the bus engine when it dies down is what disgust sounds like.

3. The crisp burning of your cigarette at 2 a.m is what solitude sounds like.

4. The coy yet persistent clanging of two very worn out gold bangles is what mother making a meal would sound like.

5. Canned laughter is what mockery sounds like.

6. The wind bursting in the ear is what nature sounds like.

7. The sound of his heart thumping is what intimacy sounds like.

8. The impact of high-heels on hard cold marble is what pride sounds like.

9. The soft hum in the skull is what conscience sounds like.

10. Silence is what you without desire sounds like.

To whomsoever it may concern

Dearest,

Look not at what you see. But try and look at what I’m hiding from you. Most people don’t look hard enough. But then I was hoping that you will be different. The artist sees all doesn’t he? God is an artist. He’s the master who created the mortals that you call masters. He created me from his imagination. How much more beauty can you want? Don’t look at the smile that I show you. Instead take the time to trace the ghost of the tears that ran down my face. Find some beauty in this crooked face. For what is a face but shapes held together by a nose? Experience and lessons held together by your eyes. Joy and sadness harnessed together by a single mouth. Treat them not with your eyes, but with that feeling you get when you close your eyes.

Don’t look at what I take the trouble to show to you. Instead look to find the past that I can so easily hide. You don’t have to heal the wounds. You should just see the wounds that I beg you not to make again. I don’t know if I have a soul, help me find mine, and when you do don’t claim it as your own…why claim something that is already yours?

See beyond the body. Don’t reduce me to mere sweat and dung. There is a spirit that soars above my body. That is who I am. Respect me as I do you. Don’t take my vulnerability as my weakness, take it to mean that I trust you with my raw self uncluttered by the world. You don’t have to feel pity; I will never feel sorry for you. You just have to look at me with all my wounds, my weakness, my secrets and still see beyond all this.

This is all I am. No glory. Just a struggling spirit in this world. I have been given your wing and you have been given mine. If you run away with my wing remember your running away from yours too.

But for all this, you have to let go of worldly definition of everything. Don’t define yourself by the words the world gives you. I have no words to define you. In my mind and in my soul you are a feeling…you are a state of consciousness. You’re real and unreal at the same time. You’re infinity and now all in one moment. You begin where I end and I begin where you end. I am you and you are me…. For eternity…

And for all this all you need to do is …

Look not at what you see.

Yours always...

Intoxicated torment

This was a duet by a poet and a poetess. One drowned in whiskey the other silenced by pain.
It happened on one of those rainy days, when it was not supposed to rain, but like everything that goes against you at times, the rain clouds too were against us. It was a volley of emotions shot across by sms believe it or not. This is a collection of text messages that were sent and received. He was drunk on whiskey and I was tormented by pain. Till Shom's lips touch whiskey and I suffer agony.....

A dialog between whiskey and pain.

whiskey:

It is going to rain tonight like the night last.

pain

I love the rain

Let it come tonight

If it doesn’t then make it come

I demand it.

whiskey

You demand rain is it?

Then give me pain

and I’ll rain my tears for you

pain

The rain beats on your face

Tears or impostors

its hard to trace

whiskey

But would you care?

Would you really care if they

Made love to you for a fleeting moment?

Made you feel like a queen

and gave you memories to cherish forever

Would you really care?

pain

Those fleeting moments I hold

in the deepest part of me.

Where a moment is extended

to last somewhere to last somewhere

close to eternity...

But do you possess enough pain to quench my thirst?

Is there so much in you to let the rain clouds burst?

whiskey

Rain me away oh woman

Rain me away...

Oh woman the owner of enigma

Make me thirst

Make me cry

If I don’t have pain I’ll give you my dreams

Oh woman...oh woman!!!

pain

Pain I’ll freely give you,

Your wounds I’ll decorate with my laughter.

Each tear I will accuse of your loving me,

and each verse I’ll write with your intoxicated blood.

But the wounds I make I bleed to heal you,

The tears you cry rip a hole in my being too.

whiskey

Kill me kill me again and again

So that I am reborn not as I

not as you but as us.

Let there be us.

I am willing.

I am willing to die.

Love is the perspiration of the soul

Let us mix it

Let us be one.

Give me pain...oh give me pain...

pain

Oh sweet tormentor of my soul

Let us dwell in this madness

This is glorious ecstasy that burns within me

that burns within you...that burns within us...

To purity that’s beyond our comprehension.

whiskey

Oh lady oh lady...

When has death been so romantic?

When has death been such a witness?

When has man loved so?

When have the laws been defied such

When has there been more torment

and each moment of torment

more intense than the dying sun

When has love died so to live forever?

Eternity has been defeated

We love...

Let there be no witness

for no witness shall comprehend

Let there be pain

Let there be rain

Love me woman

Hurt me till the end!!

pain

You bereft me lord of words.

You take the breath out of my lungs

You let me not sigh even.

You have encompassed me in my entirety.

There is no longer the sun

We have surpassed it.

There is no air...you are all i breath

There is no god....you are my salvation.