Haya Venna 2


I Don't Like - by Haya Venna 2 (Photo by Alex Iby)Photo credit: Alex Iby

I Don’t Like

By Haya Venna 2

I don’t like the way you look at me,
with an emotion foreign to my heavenly body.
I don’t like the way it feels to be talked about,
ill thoughts spilling out of your faucet.
Be careful, it may overflow;
for you may, yourself, trip.

With your mossy agony that graces
every reminder of my immaculate being,
you walk in with zero concern.
With zero concern of relishing the breathing muscles of my soul,
you shed a dozen smoky roses.

Summoned me into your life,
to be your angel and to lather your wounded ego with fairy dust.
Approached you,
with hope stricken eyes;
don’t blame me,
I had no other choice.

Contemplating my metaphorical funeral wasn’t an option,
I’d long sold my first dance to the devil in a tuxedo.
Flipped my crimson attire and attitude,
and as I walked swiftly towards you with the wind caressing my face,
and my train, longer than a Greek goddess’ golden hair
it sure felt nice, to be welcomed as a nightmare.

Edition XXVI

The Thoughts of Painted Skin - by Haya Venna 2 (Photo by Cherry Laithang)Photo credit: Cherry Laithang

The Thoughts of Painted Skin

By Haya Venna 2

A storm was brewing inside me,
a storm that had a name.
With dark eyes and dark thoughts,
every synonymous had thought the same. 

With a reflection of a caring mind,
masked to the brim with opinions so olden.
Oh what irony it was,
to call the judgemental heart golden. 

All that was talked about were diamonds on my tainted neck,
from the richest places to an even richer atmosphere.
You could only be tied to someone,
any rich one from the same part of the sphere.

No goads to my un-clever opinions,
my education being a secondary concern.
She’s a girl and therefore she belongs in the kitchen,
house chores is more important for her to learn.

An epiphany clouded my mind,
the only way out is to shine.
But how to do so when you’re a reject,
I better get somewhere before I’m back on their mind.

Edition XXIX

Dear Victim - by Haya Venna 2 (Photo by Natheer Halawani)Photo credit: Natheer Halawani

Dear Victim

By Haya Venna 2

Write me like your favourite song.
Play my tunes deep within,
so that when her mocking breath fans above your ears,
and your disheartened eyes look away,
you’d always remember your kin.

When she scars your right cheek,
violently, screaming insults,
I’ll be the whisper of the wind.
For I will be calming you down,
with sweet nothings.

Immerse me into the pot of paint,
red, purple, green or blue,
anything that matches her and you.
Because if I leave looking like a blank canvas,
I’ll know that you will no longer ache.

I am your guardian angel,
blessed with a subject so pleasant.
We’ll make it through the darkest of times,
as long as you remember my presence,
during the highlights of your life.

Edition XXXII

The Ebb and Flow - By Haya Venna 2 (Photo by Martino Pietropoli).jpgPhoto credit: Martino Pietropoli

The Ebb and Flow

By Haya Venna 2

The silver around my neck is rusted,
murky orange-red lathered over purity.
My mother had given it to me in the spring
and I made a vow, to protect it forever, to never sin.
Followed through was all I did,
so why is the yellowing my fault?

My rusting, depreciating silver got taken away,
society left my neck looking bare.
I hardly go out now;
The world is a calamity, broken in my vision.
Because of me, my family lives in dread.
Oh stranger, didn’t know you could be such a threat.

Was it really due to my violation of a dress code?
Or was it thee who followed thy heart?
Because, my glittered face shone brighter than my dignity
and your attention was elsewhere.
Sometimes I wonder what life would be like
if I never had ever left the house.

So tell me something, society;
With a few stacks of finance,
you roam around trying to get to the grocers
and just as your figure reaches the double doors,
a stranger’s silhouette turns you around and steals.
Would you blame yourself for carrying all that cash?

So tell me something, society;
On a cloudy winter night,
when her tears glimmer like the stars,
his hooded orbs burn holes into her
and his heinous grin widens as if he’d stole,
would you blame her for simply existing?

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