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Rhyme

PainPoetryRhyme

Perfect Imperfections

I am not perfect
I am not the only one with this defect
Where’s the prefect?
Let the other names on paper reflect
Voices in my head making noise
Better not give chaos a choice

I am not perfect
Lemonade isn’t life’s only lemon product
Bitterness succumbs to sweet conduct
As I host imperfection in my chamber
Flying lemons aimed at me from January to December
Should I make lemonade out of them for others?
Or should I make myself a lemon potion for my daily wounds?

I am not perfect
They say “to err is human…”
And mistakes can make one a new man
Should I carry on?
Should I worry on?
Well, a lesson lessens lessons!

I am not perfect
My imperfection you don’t prefer
Then put on the mask of pretence
Now is there something you want to refer?
Oh the mask! Now the question I want to ask
Willing to forsake this funny identity
and bid it “Bella Ciao”?
Perfect Imperfections….

El Manolo..

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LifePoetryRhyme

The Great Feast

With a cloud of rancorous belief and grey relief poised.

a bloody passover posed; allegedly retired from its millennium jaunty.

With a silent noise at a daggerpoint, oblivious minds steamed up

toxic presentation of buffet on the virus table circled with chairs,

the fluid meal made whole with rotten cells of toxins inside a globe

Preserved by a bat, or the pangolin or the faceless scum in a lab of pathogens

or the God’s handmade.

Who cares? Conspiracies regurgitated.

Death is the aroma, a cinch to the guests seated in isolation.

 

The global food, the great feast; pragmatically served to all and sundry

Wuhan embraces the microscopic meal with a grimace; dust raised, alarm silenced.

The guests; gluttonous globetrotters with civilized legs reached for a portion;

Gourmands grabbed their shares, homeward! It’s finished, empty plate on the centre.

Sanguinary days; shrapnel of sickness shattering lives like an incendiary cut across guests.

Vortex of pandemonium lay siege. Cacophony echoed; lock-downs and shutdowns.

Economy tumbles. Social distancing from normal routine; each human to their tenths.

 

Never knew the delicious food is a global sin; an accursed edible from the unknown good cook

Poisoned to end a good chunk of humans who patronized it; steals the air, apocalypse.

Humans’ tragedy turning our feast into a pandemic; respiratory sickness and death.

 

Is this the ultimate banquet? Or we’ve bartenders ready to serve us more?

A good guess like mine topples the days to and fro. Memories from the past;

dead ages forgotten. Purgation wet my panties, eat the crap. Violently pessimistic.

But if not our Last Supper, progenitors and posterity won’t believe

we witnessed a food war that smashes wealth, leaving health to thrive.

Like past, present and future if tomorrow is spared.

A nature’s feast or an anthropogenic cook or a supernatural spice?

Let’s leave the answer to the wise.

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InspirationalPoetryRhyme

Crusaders

Tomorrow assures us a glory
Celebrations of a success story
The evolution might be slow
With persistence, you can glow

On a crusade to wage a war
Against poverty to protect our ward
Nothing supersedes a pleasure
Than defeating an ugly failure

Fame can come after death
Live a life to reap your sweat
Only you can decide your fate
Choose now to eat on a silver plate

Every sky has a silver lining
Regret in life has an ending
Failure is apparently a sad story
Only perseverance can tame poverty

Let cynics remain in denial
Be bold enough to withstand any trial
Triumph against every voodoo
While breaking evil hoodoo

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