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:


Introversion forty three


Your silent treatment is not my kryptonite,
stillness shall only grow my resolve,
you can’t harm me by your shunning,
I will catapult all that is inside into servitude and solace.

What a gift you can give me, by ignoring me.

It’s not by chance that the imaginations of writers of comics, and superhero folklore all flock to the idea of self contained and secretive introverts who are superheros.

Where does your art come from, your science, your music and innovation?
Where do the things you take for granted get thought up, who’s minds are busy at work whilst others bodies are busy using up the privileges they take for granted?

It is a rare occasion you’d find an extrovert at the helm of creation, innovation, invention and deep thought. It is rare you will see art that lasts for centuries coming from their souls. They’re just not built that way.

Next time you see a quiet person minding their own business, smile, don’t disturb them if they don’t smile back, don’t feel ignored or any less, but smile and know there is a process in place, and some of us find it hard to divert our attention so easily.


Introversion forty two


I am my own entertainment,
without narcissism.
I am my own refuge,
without oppression.
I am my own solace,
without depression,
I am my own man,
without any chauvinism.

Why would I wait for your entertainment,
when all that is needed is at my beck and call,
the world presents as a splendour of gifts,
loneliness and boredom is the lazy man’s shortfall.


Where poetry comes from

I’ve bitten my tongue,
Until I’ve chewed off all I have to say
That is why there is no poetry from the lips,
But people recognise when it comes from the inside of you.

Belly full of anxiety,
Liver full of anger,
Gut full of, I just can’t take it any more,
Regurgitation of all you ate,
Presented like a chef’s painting, easy to palate.

Maybe why, the world is in such disarray,
Is we won’t give our bodies the time it needs,
Allow the fermenting of words,
Basement barrels of ageing wine,
Instead ready to drink the moonshine.

We want answers now,
Unable to silence and quell ourselves,
So we’ve normalised extroversion as the default,
The super-being, the all knowing, all seeing,
Rise up and be all you are by being a walking billboard,
Jingle yourself, sell yourself, be yourself,
Be all you are by parading around as all you are not.

Fake it until you make it, is still fake,
Even if you make it past everyone,
You still haven’t made it past yourself.

I haven’t met many extroverted poets,
Their tongue is usually biting them.


without sutures


The epitome of mercy,
The warmest hand I can caress you with,
Have you seen this much humanity,
Of soul and apprehension, a spiritual blacksmith.

What will become of you,
When this kindness strikes your core,
Will you pull it out and throw it aside,
Continue this endless war.

My flesh is for the taking,
I offer it sincere,
I come to you ever quaking,
Without sutures, so have no fear.

Come, near, come near,
This rupture will remain,
It’s rot and stenchen, pungent distension,
But it’s open,
Inviting to the inside of me,
To your surprise, you’ll see we pain, the same.


caterpillar man

caterpillarEveryone wants to be a butterfly,
but I want to return to being a caterpillar.

-Wesam El dahabi.


Metaphors for attentions whores,
Attention deficit, a box ticking score,
Worship me, lift me, I need more,
give me wings, I want to soar.

Meanwhile on the other end….

We have cut our wings and seen our flaws,
Left the sea, returned to shore,
Walked through extravagance and all its gore,
Long to cocoon, back to our core.

For my brethren introverts,
who hate the noise of extravagance,
the limelight of showing off,
the chaotic storm of extroversion and disarray it causes them.

Who are perfectly fine,
even happier being alone,
slowly and purposely moving.

We’re happy to look like the caterpillars,
you can keep your wings,
but ponder for a second,
did you forget we spin silk?