Lub Dub.

He had her life and she didn’t want his in return,
Just the sound of his heartbeat, like a war drum.

Anarchy, I suppose, is as good a metaphor as any.


Asking for it

She lay on the side of the road, her body, now not as inviting as it was the night before.
But he satiated his guilt and her family, their questions with a single thought,
of her decision being to wear a miniskirt that night,
now lying in shreds all around her.

“Asking for it.”
As if her body was an imbecile incapable of using its words.


The turkey you left untouched,
Along with the honey baked ham, has gone cold.
The linen has lost its sheen,
Crease marks now visible on my dress folds.

How much longer do I sit here and wait?
While the spiders spin their web,
Around the still tension in the air,
You said you wouldn’t be late.

When the siren went on, with the promise of great legacy,
“The greater the risk, the greater the reward,”
You silenced me with a kiss,
And went out, slinging your sword.

Now as the wine grows older,
And the tears run dry,
I feel the bed next to me,
The empty space where you used to lie.

Time has come to shake my stupor,
The slumber has to be broken, now.
No longer can we sit here, helpless.
“Long live the motherland,”
It’s time to live up to our vows.

So as the siren calls, once again,
Not for you; this time, for me.
I steel my nerves as I step out,
It’s time to break the shackles free.



~Erin Hanson

“Love is a verb, not a noun.”

People are weird.
We want new experiences and yet, when things don’t go the way we want them to, we aren’t satisfied.
From “don’t say it, show me”
To “I haven’t heard you say it once”
We have such rigid ideas in our heads that we can’t digest even the thought of anyone doing it differently.
We expect so much, try so hard to make everything perfect. Plan the aesthetics, forget the emotion.
We clutch these moments so tightly in our hands that when they finally break into a million shards, piercing every illusion we’ve ever held, we’re too busy complaining to notice who puts them back together into a beautiful new picture.
Not everyone can write ballads or make friendship bracelets.
But if they smile whenever they see you,
If they laugh at your jokes, no matter how bad they might be,
If they don’t hesitate to call if they need something,
If they talk to you once a year, but make it count,
If they try to unravel every part of you, even though they know it might be in vain,
If they ask you to be their person, their one, unwavering support system,
If they don’t call you for days, but wait for you to call them just so they can hear you say how much you’ve missed them,
If they quietly keep memoirs of all your best moments together,
If they can’t accept anything but a smile on your face,
If they don’t mind you cursing them because they know you don’t mean it,
If they go behind your back to fix a problem you’d deemed unsolvable; without asking for anything in return,
If they put on a brave smile for you, no matter how bad the tornado of their own life is,
They care.

Shattered Dreams

Clutched in his arm, like a lifeline,
Lies a little ragged doll.
Better dressed than he is, I notice,
As he shivers in the cold.

As as I sling my bagpack on,
Dreading another day of school,
I see him by the same corner,
Lifting a stack of plates as high as him, toiling like a mule.

I wince.( He makes for an ugly sight)
And straighten my new tie,
While he swats away the flies,
Bringing another round of chai.

I see him again by the docks,
Too weary to stand straight.
And again, rubbing his slap-stung cheek,
Cursing whoever wrote his fate.

That little boy is everywhere,
At every corner of every street.
As I learnt the table of seventeen that day,
He learnt how to slaughter meat.

My throwaways make his face light up,
To him, there’s no greater treasure.
My worn out quilt, my old shoes,
Unaware that his worth is beyond measure.

You cane him for honest mistakes,
But two more pennies make him stay.
It sure makes your work easier,
But it’s his childhood you’re taking away.

Imagine the power, the potential,
That their calloused hands hold.
The same ones clutching the ragged doll,
Out on a corner, shivering in the cold.