I wish I were the bling of perfection,
Not a broken spade, hiding in the shades,
Waging war with incompetent cards.
I wish I could send hope,
To me and the deck of cards.
But all I ever do is scribble in my heart.
I wish I had the club of kings,
To tell me I need me more.
But I count my own sins and
Pin them along with the damned egos.
I wish I were told, jokers do cry,
That I was not alone, sigh
But they do smile with all the palor,
While I drown in my forlorn parlour.
I wish I knew, how to be a diamond,
Flaunting the lavish motifs and brilliance,
Winning hearts not fighting losing battles.
Instead, I sell my soul in pieces,
Blinded by the sparkly species.
I wish I believed, I held all the aces,
Even in my breath and in all the races.
That I was the player, the ideal one.
But gave up the card to my demons,
Who put me on a leash to fetch the lemons.
I wish I could tell myself,
How much I deserve a suit,
Of laughter, joy and love.
But never can I fathom my true worth,
Consumed by unwanted gulit, henceforth.
I wish I could weave sagas of future,
To know what I crave and be destiny’s watcher.
I cannot but loop in the melancholic tales,
Like one of those rusty cassette trails.
Perfection is what I seek,
To be in luck for every single tuck.
But you must speak,
And tell me kindly with regards,
How do I convince myself
That I’m the Queen of Cards.
The Malavikable 