Out the Dirt I Came

See deep down for all I mean good.

But I’m not the type to divulge what’s cooking,

all that matters to me is that you’ll eventually nod approval to my food.

You can bet that I despise blowers of own horns.

The type that doesn’t hood up in rain, to merely flaunt a new hairdo.

The same type to grant then rant I loathe.

The type to tap then yap,

on your face clap, behind your back stab,

kiss and tell,

that type, should dwell in hell.

dirt1

But instead it’s I who dwells in hell,

for being able to tell; in both senses of “tell”,

the self-aggrandizement that flips human tails to heads

and heads as tails instead.

But I only got one question for you Mrs Kind,

If the world wasn’t watching in readiness to judge,

would you still be “Mrs Kind”?

Ignorance indeed is bliss because out the dirt I came in search for bliss,

and since ignorance is synonymous with bliss,

then out the dirt I go back blissfully, devoid of bliss.

The Eyes

Another reason to give thanks for the eyes

is that; they always defy plots by the smile

to hide traces of inner hate and despise.

Windows to some souls ooze bitterness than bile

while precious ones are as clean as a newborn’s slate.

Understandably, no one loves everything.

It is absolutely stupid to hide hate,

unless you’ll always wear shades, you’re doing nothing.

Disguised despise is not wise despise for one;

can only sweep dirt under the carpet cloth

till the carpet itself dirties. No one won.

Blatant hate is better hate, better yet-loathe.

As we embrace, you probably think I bug.

Too bad that eye can’t see your eyes as we hug.