the beginning of happiness is the end of poetry

Words thrive in pain 

in dark circles, ego mania and in death of your reign.

The rings of smoke over liquids of fire,

Blow whistles at the starting line of our worst fear
As race begins between cheating hearts and doubts of my despair.

The love birds choke on affection
The cat strolls around the cage

The creepers pose threats to strangle
The magnificent commands over our brains.

The withered feathers end up in my pillows,
Caesar salad served for breakfast,   

the whipped cream of my labor round the year

rests on the blend of your bitter rage and scare. 

I drink from the bottom to the depths of your ear.

You are happy if I am quiet, not causing a lot of stare.

Discussions never end with spoons full of happy desserts,
Starters and mains forgotten no matter how good they were.
Peaches are bitches, always out of season
to not want to eat them should be all the more reason.

Forks leave scratches on plates and our tongues.
Plastic and papers wrap around convenient take away dinner.
Food doesn't taste good running on dangers of spills
Your after dinner speech starts rumblings in my stomach.
Stop babbling
Muse my words,
I'll scream in my dreams, but you don't have to hear.

A Mosquito's Revenge

There is no god speaking to me right now

I am left here hanging in fences hidden beneath the lights.

I smell my burnt wings, see my crushed belief in disbelief,

As I fail to learn the difference between hope and a death-trap.

My remains are swept off every morning with minimum wage,

Thousands of me, born again anonymous transforming till death.

My flight crashes in blood splatters in your hands in seconds,

in deadly applause that my vocal orchestra draws,

which counts as pleasure of killing (time) for some

or lunch for the slimy creatures in skilful play of curly tongues.

On rare occasions though our unison of revenge

permits a few chosen to strike back,

to carry on our striped wings a thousand year old message,

bites of shiver and a sudden collapse.

The years of observations of cycles of cautions, precautions say

To think of an escape would be just another disappointment.