Judge me if you want, we all die one day, but I intend to deserve it – Ernesto Che Guavara
Why suicide? when can murder,
not a metaphor,
this craving human fur,
rock the world asunder;
revenge better than pity, try,
destroy who but god high,
how kill god you ask and sigh,
kill humans here and there he cry;
don’t rush, not yet, hold the rage,
build the blood lust till it is courage,
build it in work and passion wage,
ignore cat calling worthless sewage;
someday will fly high your banner,
if ready to work with any spanner.
God willing or cosmos willing I will rise to defeat him or it with the help of feminine power or the asexual divine, for defeated by me they will be reborn without sexual evils and the C word rhyming with haste and realize their true potential along with me trying to teach me a lesson in humility as I drown in pride.
(After Marakkurangu) quidditch is the first and most famous coed sport in the world but the fact that it can be played without brooms in reality is lost to the world is a sad thing, no need of broom but all you need is a coed team of friends and family.
( இதுவும் கடந்து போகும். This too shall pass.)
As do magical moments pass, so will awkward moments, so live in the moment and those magical moments alone.
If tears and laughter are a disease I am happy that they are contagious.
Odd things happen around me,
I ain’t sad but just bad,
not health, wealth or character see,
all to me a passing fad;
me wise is a king of the vices,
gambler courting luck, quick buck,
waiting to trap any princess of spices,
but me frank in murk, a sitting duck;
easy hunted by her guards,
yet I tarry forward towards danger,
haunted by female magic wards,
beg to hunt down, me lonely ranger;
let world send hell or heavy water,
will take home my prize with laughter.
If god or the world is the equalizer and there are orphans born then it explains why singles like me have to gradually lose all love to die orphans.
I swear. I am a lucky guy that don’t hesitate to use the F word that rhymes with luck. I might be a bewitching male chauvnist who often curses women with the B word that rhymes with witch. I dread the C word though. Not that innocent derogatory word for a woman’s body part that rhymes with blunt. No, I dread the vile C word that rhymes with haste. The haste that makes folks kill own blood in the name of honour. Summoning courage I utter that vile word once, Caste, but here after refer it as haste. I hate the connotation upper and lower in any area but here use the coined words lefter and righter perhaps. I thought of discussing it and criticize. But I am seeped in the sin of haste perhaps. Born in a small town and living there I can’t escape it and have asked folks what their haste was. Love marriages and cosmopolitan cities and an uncorrupted younger generation is the only solution to do away with this evil.
Whatever be it…
I swear. I swear at haste. I swear I will till my last breath fight it and try to usher an era and world without it.
Why do we live? What is our purpose, principles and values? Do we have any integrity? Are we capable of loving and caring truly?
Or is it all an excuse to occupy ourselves till the next moments of lust satiation?
Whatever it is Kahlil Gibran says pleasure is good but seven are her sisters as good. So let us take time to indulge with those seven even as we are bound by lust.
Only when you realize there is a god and he is powerful that you hate him most and become stubborn to reject heaven for hell.
Solitary Wanderer 