Bling

Oh what a thing
Is bling.
It wings
Its way across the chasm between I do and It Might Have Been.
It rings
In the relationship and politely shows out the fling
All the while glittering
And chiseling
Its carated way in
To her stone cold heart. Oh what a thing
Is bling.

Coming of age

She would romanticise skyscrapers
And the smell of rain on earth
And car rides in the rain
And the flowers of her city
And coffee.

Now she drinks tea, mostly,
And her phone is always in vibrator mode.
So that even if you wanted to burst
Into song
In her handbag
You would only be a distant buzz.

An irritating hum
That would perfectly offset
Her mild distaste for her air conditioned office
(On the twenty fifth floor)
Her strong dislike of monsoons
Her allergy to caffeine.

Materialistic

What can I say?
I invest my heart too much
In earthly objects.
Muted lighting and walk in closets
And sunken baths
And gravelled paths
Through my personal patio.

What can I say?
I pin my hopes too much
On a million dollar property.
The folks back home
Would swoon and faint
Over this blatant lust
For concrete and paint.

What can I say?
I cannot rise above this greed, this
Fleshly creed of desire,
This fire
Of the need to posess, own,
Hoard.

Quitting the Quotidian

I wonder sometimes
Why it took so long
For the scales to fall from my eyes.
God knows I was told often enough
About the mean pickings.

But what finally got to me the most, I think,
Is when they took me for a ride
And told me I was pedestrian.

So here I go,
Clambering out of the quotidian.