Pain

Pain is the police officer with shackles of sorrow…

She comes knocking down on all your doors

And jails you for preaching happiness.

Pain is he IRS officer that takes away all your cash;

Taxing your body for contracting health and exporting

Ways of life that are not ordained or sanctioned by the trend.

Pain is the bomber plane that breaks frontiers

And nukes the territory of your life…

Or is she the exquisite primal ballerina

That puts the ethereal show of an adolescent guilt,

Then pole dances you into a burlesque waltz?!

She is the guilty pleasure between the silky sheets

That seduces you with the exotic abyss of bliss.

As to how she has got a place in our lives…

Well depends on how she entered our lives:

Legal or not,

If she rented or bought the spot;

If we give her the slippers or make it comfortable within us.

She is Chaos itself, the creator!

She brings wisdom and love, nurtures the soul

With an eternal flawless touch.