Not too sure what had brought this on. I was thinking about murder, and the process of it, and all the sensations related to it. And the many ways you can murder someone, or yourself. And then, there you have it. A poem.
It is in the bloody scent,
Just before the butcher slices the chicken's throat.
It is in the exhaust,
Emitting smoke from bikes of mat rempits who are going way too fast.
It is in the cranking sound,
Of the car's malfunctioning gearbox.
And also in the ashes,
The remnants of vanilla flavoured tobacco.
It is in the air, everywhere.
I smell it in the perfume on my friend,
Leftovers from a bareback conquest.
I smell it in the train,
As it chugs along on poorly maintained tracks.
I sense it in the mud,
As small children run by with slippers that have flat soles.
I sniff it out,
In dark clogged drains where the mosquitoes breed.
I camoulage myself.
With the taste of chilli,
And herbal tea.
And mosquito coils.
With car maintenance bills,
And better life insurance.
With SpeedStick deodorant,
And cruelty free shampoo.
I can smell death,
But I hope death cannot smell me.
3.16am, 27th May 2016
SB is a conflicted soul of sorts, who is mad enough to go chase after what she really loves as opposed to conform to society and her mother's idea of a successful person. She prays she makes it in life, because she will not be able to tolerate the nagging that would follow if she doesn't. Her inspiration comes from everything around her, as well as made up situations in her head. Good luck distinguishing between the two.