Hands Separate

Hands separate

Again

And again;

This time I

Don’t want to stay and look

Or turn around and glance

It doesn’t matter.

All that had to be said, perhaps wasn’t

Perhaps never will be.

But right now, there is nothing more I want to convey to you

As these hands separate.

But I will stare sombrely through strangers

Where you can’t see

How the said and the unsaid

Mow all over and then puncture me;

How the said and the unsaid

Make a joke of me

So that strangers we don’t know

Can pity the irony

And read from my face

That the joke’s not funny.

I always felt you lacked a real sense of humour.

It's been REALLY long since I updated my blog. I realized that a lot of things I wanted to say were things I couldn’t or didn’t want to put up here.
I did feel bad occasionally about your empty white spaces. But you’ve said a lot through them too.

There's also 'lazy'....

Kill You With Silence

So many things uttered

Nothing really said

Begin:

Not a word

Not a sound

No sentences will be framed

No words will be spoken.

I’d like to kill you with my Silence

Echo this emptiness

I’d like to kill you with Silence

Slow poison

Or a knife

Depends on how you take it

‘Cause behind the soundproof glass

you have switched off.

And there, only my

Silence can reach you

And then even if you wanted to,

You wouldn’t be able to respond

To empty echoes.

This Silence,

Loud enough

To shake you out of your deafness

Tricky,

For you wouldn’t know what you are throwing back to

How to handle

Things that haven’t been said

How to reply, justify, retort, offer excuses

To this powerful lack of

Everything you need.

And your words will fail you

For they cannot combat

This unarmed attack.

This Silence, I’ll kill you with it

And even if you chose to answer with silence

It would merely be a poor second

Not a fraction as effective

As my Silence that challenges it.

For in your silence

You stand exposed

And then your cocooning glass can only

Shatter at the

Paradox of it all.

Post Script:

It’s a potent weapon

Dead on you

Or so I thought

Dead on you,

I hoped not.

For if the very vehicle of our exchange

Was dead, then

You and I

Would be too.

[And you laughed when I told you about my violent tendencies. These are my weapons of choice.]