is an arid tongue,
hope, far flung,
poetry, unsung,
waiting, knowing,
it’s not going to come.

It’s the beating of a skin-torn drum,
hearing the murmur of your hearts hum,
for odes that wont ever be sung,
you know, you just have to succumb.

Be content without, with only, some,
putting your hand in the same hole,
knowing you’re going to be stung,
leaving surety, to the whims of the young.

Don’t despair they say,
but I’m choking on impatient lungs,
it’s no wonder people end it early,
when anticipation feels like,
waiting to become undone.



I’m well contained within parenthesis,
try as you may to add,
you’ll only make a difference,
if you get inside me.

For that,
you’ll need to attempt multiple times,
and once inside,
can you perhaps divide me,
separate me,
work out the crux of me,
find what the sum of me means,
and become my friend.

Here’s the thing,
mathematicians are not butchers,
we leave form intact,
as much as we love to know,
the guts of every equation,
we’re purists to the core,
and don’t engage in the depth of understanding,
for appearance and popularity.


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.