hurting?
what the?

(I had been lost all this while. Lost, but hurting)

*raises left eyebrow*

*yawns*
*goes back to sleep*

Out of the closet.

Here!
And finally!
Out!
Of the closet!
In the open!
Hanging!
Still!
Bleeding!?
Auburn hair!
Very fair!
Only loincloth!
Son of God!
Emancipated!

Psst..

You are the insipid in beginnings,
the hiding in my muse,
the twirling, thinking index finger,
the cliches I abuse.

You are the simple lyric,
that challenges my rhyme,
the soaring, surging raaga,
four beats at a time.

You are braille in a reign of black,
the reluctance in refuse,
the security of darkness,
the intent I confuse.

You are the personal disbelief
in your own silly excuse,
the little devil worshipped
deep, deep, in a ruse.

You are stage that stands waiting,
the audience I can't amuse,
the silence that listens patiently,
the love-poem gone obtuse.