Introversion is the new black


But where were you all,
when we were stuck inside ourselves,
like discarded books on dusty shelves,
now, all of a sudden,
you won’t judge a book by its cover,
want to get to know us,
inside us delve.

For us it’s not a trend,
not a hash tag,
we’ve been alone, discarded,
convoluted, since twelve.

You know, that age,
when we’re meant to bloom and connect,
we’re ignored,
because we internalise and reflect,
we think and dissect,
we analyse and inspect,
we won’t look outward,
nor deflect,
we find the nuts and bolts of it,
like architects,
build from the inside out,
upwards and erect.

So when you see that timid boy,
or that hidden girl,
spare a moment to reflect,
about their world,
before that insult,
before the stigma,
you carelessly hurl,
because one day you’d realise,
through all that time alone,
all that time inside,
they’ve been whipping up their character,
fortifying their soul,
and waiting for the time,
to reveal their pearls.


If you’re not one, don’t fake it, we can see you a mile away.

self conscious – perpetuity

The company of an exhaust hum,
a cicada song,
heat vaporising of asphalt,
or the shore of breaths,
inwards and outwards as you sleep on my arm.

Ice cubes fighting cup walls,
conversations of people,
like I’m not in the room,
the fake smile of a girl,
who just wants to keep her job,
I don’t hate her,
I like her more,
but I wouldn’t converse with her.

Does anyone else,
look for the quietest corner of a room,
and the minute you’re sitting in it,
you’re suddenly the most noticeable person there?

Perhaps then I shouldn’t hide,
but wear the same mask everyone else does,
problem is,
even then, I know I’m wearing it.

Self consciousness,
is utter sensitivity,
a womb of paralysis,
to perpetual analysis.

Your ears ring,
your mind buzzes,
your body vibrates,
and your being hums.

It’s not an exhaust,
it’s not a cicada,
the waves off the asphalt are an illusion,
breath, is syncopation of your soul perspiring,
and that’s just it,
it’s all soul,
always the soul.

Where are you then,
with your works towards it?


Art by martin stranka – meet me half way

-Introversion forty five

We’re closed things,
barren things,
in the midst of noise,
only silence rings.

And it is our ring,
married to a widow,
she hovers over us – protective,
haunting all those who attempt,
forcing them to flee,
and leave us alone,
we’re no home.

I see your palm ever stretched towards me,
but I am struggling to rise to worth,
in recognition that I am of merit,
how strange I repel myself,
repulse myself,
in turn reject you,
before you have the chance to see me.

I’m happy to remain a waft,
a passing zephyr of musk and wood,
that you can never wash away,
that you’d obsess over to stay,
I know, we’re a selfish lot,
apparently distant and alone,
longing, but such a despot.



Grow my hair,
lose my mind,
lose my hair,
grow my mind,
that’s how I justify it now.

But when it all came off,
I knew I was burrowing.

Such a simple, superficial action,
was the beginning of returning,
the distant whisper,
the call and yearning,
the axe grinding blacksmith,
the mill of churning,
the end of me,
the beginning of learning,
it’s impossible to hear,
without the inward turning.


not by choice

Why thank you for the compliment,
but I must be frank,
I am no sage,
I am no guru.

If you admire patience in me,
know it didn’t come through spiritual awareness,
nor grinding the axe against my ego.

It’s this anchor that never leaves,
holding down my tongue, my limbs and my very being,
from devoting myself.

I have no other default, it’s all or nothing,
and I choose and have withered to nothing.

Social anxiety doesn’t even register as a blip,
nay, I have to return to being alone to find a semblance of sanity.

If you see patience,
it’s because I can’t engage with you any more,
not because I have spiritual magnificence,
it is numbness and indifference.

The skill of sociability,
is a well oiled machine,
and I,
a derelict cog,
free spinning down the road.


Introversion forty four



You’re only as attractive as your last sale.
And humankind struggles to put together an identifiable model of acceptance,
fear, the most successful sales pitch is not only pitched by the sales people, it is pitched by the purchaser, and so the foray of beings so desperate to sell themselves to others as worthy will ironically buy up whatever it is to sell themselves and stay attractive in the eye of the shopper. Most people are shoppers, they can’t help it, they’re conditioned that way.

From birth, the sales pitches begin, you’re bombarded with the messages that you need to purchase stuff to be worthy.
Men, rush to appear dominant, successful, ambitious and driven, women too are buying them same. Women rush to appear beautiful and attractive, physically appealing, whatever it takes, men too rushing to much the same.

Fake lips,
fake eyes,
fake cheeks,
more lies.

Bleached teeth
fake breasts,
fake beards,
fake chests.

Fake money,
fake status,
fake tans,
fake lashes.

Financed cars,
psychologist appointments,
wannabe stars,
perpetual disappointments.

Feathered eyebrows,
both she and he,
blind hearts, dead souls,
physical eyes but they cannot see.

This drudgery,
this misery,
this dichotomy,
of the world being raised on consumer culture,
thus everyone trying to sell ‘me’.

And yet here I am,
a spanner in the works,
here to tell you,
sell nothing,
and consider yourself dirt.


Introvert survival guide


When they praise your appearance,
shave your hair off.

When they envy your life,
tell them you’re suffering so they stop looking at you with eyes that scold.

When they admire your body,
cover up, they’re meat eaters, carnivorous and lame.

When they tell you that you’re so smart,
leave all the institutions that let them think that made you,
and continue your journey of learning until your dying days,
independently or with men and women that matter,
then watch them call you crazy about every new thing you teach them.

At that point recluse,
this world is not for you.

When they call you a loner,
take pride, introvert more,
and find it in you to have mercy on them.

When they paint you as dangerous,
forge your body into such an array of dangerous weapons,
they fear your very presence in the room,
let your breath heave tremors down their spine.

But in all that time,
in all those years,
when they cannot stand the sight of their own reflection,
when they will clutch at any pill,
to keep them from the pain of dealing with themselves,
when they are numb to themselves,
welcome them to your world,
and remind them they have a self.
Remind them that you cut yours down all those years ago,
and that is why you’re still in one piece.

Why all that looking up or down at you,
was the best thing that happened to you.
But keep your head shaved,
even if after it all,
you find your lot of peace,
keep your head shaved so they never look at you the wrong way again.

Hair is so overrated,
knowledge isn’t summed so well until your last breath,
appearances are forgotten memories of the maggots,
that chew at your morsels in your grave,
wisdom never visits the vain and arrogant,
poise, never comes to the fingertips,
of those who luxe in the superficial,
and your poetry,
your magnum opus,
your ode to joy,
your Carmina Burana,
is your ability to elixir,
every last drop of truth,
from the nucleus of your seed.

Take to the grater,
take to the juicer,
take to peeling back every lie you ever told yourself,
and stop pretending,
don’t wash with the foam of society,
to whatever it is they tell you, you are,
then watch them all wait for you at the shore of hope,
that you once again look their way.

put some headphones on and go for a walk to this: