Wish

I remember the woman who would look both ways
before she crossed the road, with animated scenes
of her own death being played in her perepheral vision

I wish i had those visions, of gory death, crushed
by a moving bus, or through derailment of a train,
add a bit of blood, or a lot of it, oozing from my flesh

I wish i could see, me cutting up myself to pieces,
driving nails through my bones, with a nice steel hammer,
that i could listen to my last hoarse breaths of life, in idle moments

I could use them over all these crazy images, that i
conjure from thin fucking nothings, which then haunt me
for minutes, hours and days, until a new one takes its place

The Least Interesting Man in the World

With Apologies to a comic on the Internets
who's careful stick figures stand up in jest
Like this protagonist from weeks ago,
I do haunt this blog with a furrowed brow.

Should I post about this most prosaic of days?
Or rave and rant in panicked dismay?
Should I stay ensconced in the captivity of negativity?
Be verbose or go on an exercise of brevity?

Shall I resist the urge to apologize?
For the lack of posts to plagiarize?
Or should I succumb to my urges as a quitter?
And limit myself to 140 characters on twitter?

Whichever be the path on the fork that's chosen,
This one thing shall remain frozen.
Even now as in days of old,
I shall remain the least interesting man in the world.

Fear

The ridge was so narrow that he feared for his life every time he took a step forward. He feared that the thorny branches will tear up his skin when he walked forward. He feared that he will break the delicate glassware that were kept on the stools which lined the muddy path. And he slipped and fell into the abyss. He picked the thorns and saw blood dripping from his flesh. Red colour added to the mud when he stepped on the broken glass. He went for a mad rush. He feared that he will never reach the end of the path. He slipped again.