Un-finished/Un-rhyming Prose Poetry

I msged. She replied. Nothing weird here. It`s cool. All cool. The world works within this system. You call/text/msg. They reply accordingly. You pretend interest. They pretend sweet surprise, mixed with a smell of cunt hole. It`s normal. Everyday thing. Everybody does it.

She called. She answered. They do it every day. She told her something. Genuine surprise. Rare occurrence. They laughed. Nothing new. One pretended caring. Other being cared. Give and take. Nothing weird here. It`s cool. All cool.

He walked. Not knowing where. Just walked. A Slow cozy gait. Not a rare thing. Occurred every once and then. Happening again. He met someone weird. An acquaintance. One pretended knowing. Other being known. They went home and had wine and sex. He stayed the night. It`s normal. If not totally.

They shouted with daggers and guns. He stopped. Dead of night. They knew him ok. They made him their leader. He spearheaded an angry mob to freedom. Then they killed each other over power and money. He survived, riding the tides. He felt genuine good riddance. They were too dead to feel anything. It happens. It`s cool. All cool.

He called. She didn`t answer. He msged. She replied. You had gone for too long. Now everything has died. He cried. She pretended apathy. He hide his hostility. Happens everywhere. No surprise here.

I called. She answered. She wasn`t her msg. She was  not her voice. It happens. NO surprise. Shoes don't necessarily match faces. Nor do tits and neckties. She said she wanted me. I said so did I. Nothing happened afterwards. But how time flies. It happens. Not with everyone. But it`s cool. All cool.

He sat in his room. Wrote anthologies with whisky filled quill pens. He wrote too fast. The pages caught fire. Everything burnt. Like a funeral pyre. He danced around it. He is mad. He has done it a million times. Burnt cities with a stroke of a pen. It`s alright. Normal. It`s cool. All cool.

They haunt the streets, their dicks dangling. Nothing new. They spot a prey. They chase. She runs. They pretend nothing. Their penises are raised. Their intentions are clear. She can`t pretend anything. She knows what she is. Just a gap. Just a hole.

They sat in red roomed houses. Printing leaflets in blood. They have been waiting for long. But now their revolution has come. Its majestically normal. It happens. After a lot of hard work. But then they overslept it. What a shame. Fucked up luck.

I waited for nine long months, then a few more years, a couple more passed waiting here and there. some more, waiting for this. some more, waiting for that. finally it all ended, in a grave and now I wait to get out of there. Waiting to wait for days, months and years.

                Home, finally found one. one of many, many of one. a place for rest and for fun.