i’m war and peace
from the same tongue
i’m a volcano and a garden
from the same heart
always at ends
a moment of wholeness
a moment apart


this is how we all are.
some are allowed the filters not to notice
some can’t do a thing but notice
some seam together
as fine as a tapestry from the hands life’s offering
then there are those
who unpick themselves with their teeth

don’t hold me to account because i devour myself
don’t look down on my frayed edges
my unsightly threads
my needle broke a long time ago
and with hands of brutes
i try, i try, i try to sew
but thick thimble thumbs
and callused fingers
make grotesque disfiguring


-on extroverts loving introverts


-on extroverts loving introverts

surely the plenitude of you
can find the minuscule of me


Your skin is there to remind you,
that beneath it is what matters
Seven layers,
seven wonders,
seven heavens,
seven sins,
seven hawameem of protection.

There is secrets in seven,
and there are seven more secrets beneath the flesh,
seven layers to your ego,
seven layers to your soul,
if you were to learn them,
to be cognisant of them,
you’d do nothing but busy yourself with mastering them all,
even then,
still another seven layers of extinction,
annihilating yourself to the point of non recognition,
non existence.

Seven is where it’s at,
now bathe me in the vastness of seven seas,
until on the seventh day,
I am cleansed from seven hells.

You have seven senses, not five,
won’t you love me with but one of them.


Photo again by David Uzochukwu ….. amazing


wear your vulnerable as tight as a Windsor knot,

be as broken and scattered as you may,

leave ashes of you on the lips of all that cross your path,

brand yourself on their backs and remain a heavy reminder of beauty.

three am minds, four am eyes, five am regrets,

are comforted with redirection of your supplications,

towards the centre of what makes you turn,

why would He teach you to supplicate ‘oh turner of hearts, make firm my heart upon the debt (religion) I owe you’,

if indeed we did not owe him a debt, an honorary spot.

the world and all that is in it cannot contain Him,

glory be to Him who created it all,

He is above the limitations of it and of our minds that attempt to restrict Him to the boundaries of our conjure, of our imagination,

yet by His own admission and admitting,

there He is in the softest corner of your broken, fragile, vulnerable heart,

a secret waiting to beat out, and feed the entirety of you.

i wasn’t lying when i said that the most beautiful secrets are on the edges of frailty,

you’re just unaware you carry one.


to my beautiful broken friends



The lowest form of identity

is patriotism


A belief that the name of a continent of birth defaults you to to practise prejudice against someone who’s own default steers them in the same but perhaps opposing manner as you, as if to say the purpose of humankind is to wipe each other out, of course in the name of grand old patriotism.

And politicians, governments and media are well aware of this, so they strip you of your true human identity, blast you with chemicals as soon as you leave the womb, myriads of injections, make your mother believe she doesn’t have the strength to do what a woman’s body is designed to do, cut you by force from her belly, and if she is lucky to deliver you naturally, cut the umbilical cord whilst it is still pulsating the love and nurture from her, a symbolic gesture of what lays ahead.

The chemical bombardment of drugs, food laden with toxins, water rancid with disease, an education model parading as liberating, a wolf in sheep’s clothing of the ulterior dumbing down of the masses and entrenching you in a separation from your true self, until you know nothing but this masquerade of what it is to be, to know your origin.

The severing of you from you begins the minute your fathers loins thought about finding a fertile home in your mother, both of them too, carrying the blood of manipulated and numb to the core beings, mindlessly obeying, worshipping the state and the system over what is truth and what is real.

And you…. well you have your patriotism, a golden stamp on your hand of your obedience to them.

Drape your shoulders in their flag,
tattoo their anthems on your breast,
congratulations, you’re not a patriot,
you’re bereft.


the seed that hides in the shadows

We’re seeds waiting to burst,
to impregnate you with poetry,
and fill your womb with our vulnerabilities,
because we know our origin,
are familiar with it’s perfume.

Naturally, the poetry of a woman’s body,
will only be understood by poets,
because we understand lines,
we curve words,
we cursive around vernacular,
until it tingles the hairs on your clavicles.

And why, we ask?
Why do you seek those who have no vernacular,
only then to look down on us,
when we write you more poetry,
write you, more you.

We don’t see you in disjointed pieces,
of fleshen lust,
body parts of Frankenstein making,
we see you as the sharer of the apple,
we ate, as you ate, tempted by words,
and only then,
was our nakedness made apparent,
but still we write,
of losing the innocence in silken verse.

Come eat, if but a morsel,
and become immortal,
forever seen through ripe pomegranate blood of heaven,
if it weren’t a sin,  we’d worship you,
and God would certainly understand the heart of poet,
we’re not blasphemous, we but love his gift to us,
and yet still, you long for the tongue tied,
the glittering fodder of men,
we pale into shadows,
writing and writing, and writing, and writing and waiting…..

This affair with words has us mad,
as we long to carve out the perfect prose,
with the precision of a zelij craftsman,
geometry to perfection, balance and scale and rhyme and rose,
and hope to plant it in you,
a seed that grows….
waiting still in shadows.


Art by David Uzochukwu – he is quickly becoming one of my favourites.

when huwa huwa takes over

-when huwa huwa takes over

be, as though you never were
be, because He never wasnt
be as though you never have
be, because He never hasn’t
i, am not what i think i am
i am, what i think i am not
i’ll be, as though it always is
because He never isn’t


strange vultures of longing hover over what?
burst open you stubborn seed
so that i may spread in the belly of the bee
and rather than a vulture waiting for a carcass
i can be soil waiting for pollen.

maybe it is the season
of life that inspires this.

virgin awakenings to what is fragrant and beautiful
bashful stirrings of butterfly’s
anxious innocence of a love that is too grand for one.

i’ve felt these pangs since I could breathe
and they visit me over and over
fifteen, fifteen and fifteen
perpetually until forty.

and now they haunt me
daily reminders of how i am meant to be
jolts of lightening igniting ignorance
exchanging it for remembrance.

forgive me my Love,
I long for thee down to the pits of me
but why, did You create this world
and keep You from me
except it spurts of sporadity
coming when i am lured by the stench
of pungent mortality.

This world is not for us
it cannot be,
when He is He,
huwa, huwa,
huwa hu


Art source: https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/yibnawi/49202177588