The crowded room and eyes that abound
Some locking, some moving on,
Some turning back, after seeming to move around,
Then the music plays, the dance is on.
The lights flash and everything throbs.
The breath. The hearts. The blood.
Emotions frothing while passion bobs
Up. Up amidst the sweat heated flood.
Hands brush a sculpted body ahead,
The eyes, those eyes, turn;
An invitation to a far-off bed,
While here bodies burn.
The music vibrates ‘round the borrowed room
And consumes the frenzied mass;
It’s almost a densely packed womb
Where energy astounds but seldom lasts.
A vivid range of humanity,
Each heart fighting his own fight;
A valiant war against eventuality
Ultimately done to find Mr. Right.
I have never asked for much.
Just to live the way You made me.
I have lived by my terms alone.
Those were conducted honestly.
No great ambition, no low vice,
Yet I’ve suffered loss, greatly so;
But I have shown no cowardice
And this is something You do know.
You put one hubris in my heart:
This need that burns within my core.
You caressed it thrice with your pawns
Ultimately, I was Your whore.
You threw down love, like ‘twas my fee,
For all that I have given You.
Maybe my mistake was calling you Father
After lying before you naked and true.
I love You. But don’t treat me thus!
It’s unfair to make me desire.
On giving, you make me Your whore
But know that makes You my buyer.
If You need revenge of some sort,
You are exacting it quite well,
And in the pain of my loved ones
You are creating my hell.
People talk of life after death;
But, oh, I know the truth so well,
Each smile You let is my heaven,
Each tear You force is my hell.
Superficiality is quite “in”.
The right amount of Prada and Gucci,
The right amount of relative sin;
The right man to see, the rich one to be.
The right kind of smile (eyes should hide the lie),
The right company (those infamous friends),
Right surgeries as time passes you by.
Right faith? Well, on current fashion depends.
Love’s idiocy! Oh, it can be bought!
Careers have no place at all for virtue!
To bed Lucifer, battles are fought;
The good are boring and are losers, too!
The loss of honour a small price for fame;
Though your mother shuns, the world knows your name!