ADDICTION

What I feel is more than love

Addiction yes, but honest and real

Am annoying. You’re quick to anger

But still I recollect to the addiction

Spewed by your heart into my soul.

Forgive me. Sorry.

My love isn’t easy, but the addiction,

Keep us going. Don’t give up

Carswell evol

TELL ME WHAT TO DO

Darling your silence,

Proves that you hate audience.

I’m at the top of the list,

But at least understand that I’m human

Simplicity and fun is who I am.

But if you want me to become serious

And make our love boring, 

By shutting up when I can afford,

A smile. I can do that.

Will that make you happy?

Then I’m sorry for being happy

Just in order to see you smile,

I’ll be sad and bitterly then

Then ill watch if you’ll cry or act indifferent.

But don’t say I’ve changed…..!

You miss Nellie, the center of your joy.

I’m the periphery of it.

I’m the core of your hate,

But that won’t deter me from loving you.

Know that I won’t let go of you.

But my character ill change.

I’ll become what you want me to be.

BY M.O.O

PASSION OF SUGAR

I taste the air, single out sweetness

Ventured to find the source

Love songs tried obstructing me

Plugged my ears, sensed you were close.

The sugary essence, activated my adrenaline

A passionate zeal to locate, consumed me

  

Alas! I saw the greatest honey comb

Your yellow brown complexion, amazed me

Inched closer, touched and tasted it

Such passion o f pleasure never had I

I’m thinking of taking my vows now

So that I, eternally hold and sip you

M.O.O

MY TREE

I felt the super-normal tree

In search for its subtle fruit

           The twigs her wig

            Its branches, rough hands

            Green leaves eerie eyes

The wind brushed, her voice

Swung its trunk, its noisy body

Its buttress roots legs of mystery

That held and absorbed love

As I transpired my feelings

Reached out for the, ripe fruit

As it lay upon the ground

Yet lively down

I got it plucked! Took a bite

Now, how do I restore it…?

By M.O.O aka Carswell evoL

INSTRUMENTS

The instrumentalist an artist

Not with a red –point brush

 Rather a solitary blue pen

She creates with a twist

Draws with a framed hush

She always plays in her den

Few instruments, most unturned

Are they plucked or struck?

No mater in her palms, lie

Her style still unzoomed

Instruments out of entertaining luck

Will they last or fly?

BY M.O.O