Self inflicted lonliness

A cure is not required,

when the world is accustomed to hyper sanity,

free me then,

unshackle me from society’s insistence,

that I must breathe like you,

if im accustomed to holding my breath,

and drowning in solitude,

your hyper sanity is hyper sanitised,

and I’m a vagabond of self inflicted loneliness.




You become larger than you are,
swollen with vernacular and prose,
happy to contain and implode.

You empower yourself by having so much to say,
but in dignity holding your tongue,
by making knowledge your staple,
and sanctifying it all in your lungs.

A hold of breath,
a pause before a thought,
reducing yourself to rubble,
your ego, to naught.

All this plenitude inside,
fit for kings and queens,
quietly content, utterly observant,
hidden and unseen.


10,000 hours of introversion

See free s

 #and s

I’ve done my 10,000 hours,
in so many things,
that I don’t know what I want to be any more.

I’ve written words,
my ticket most likely to hell fire,
fought until it is now second nature,
beaten the skin of a drum with fervour,

  • and now hear, see anrsnd feel everything,
  • in rhythm and meter,sc

everything, everything,

I’ve served, oh howss I have s4erved,
the appetites of men who cannot get enough,d, ex x t5 es
oddly, I never served a woman stricken by the same addictions.
Fattening their wallets,
fattening their bellies,
giving them pieces of me,
at the expense of my own dreams.

I’ve fixed and broken things,
mechanical things,
until pulling apart,
and putting back together,
is default,
I always want to know the crux of things,
the crux of me,
sometimes, I leave scars.

I’ve been alone,
in probably the longest calculation of man hours I can fathom,
for myself at least,
that there is my legacy,
of nothingness.

I’ve done 10,000 hours tenfold,
actually 344712 to be exact,
of that, I can easily be classed as elite,
but that is not what I hold my head high with,
that is not what I want to pass on to my children.

Is that what I want to pass on to humanity?
How, to perfect being alone?

I can calculate every waking hour I’ve been alive,
even if were spent in activity,
even with people,
and relegate them all as being alone,
because, I was always somewhat disconnected,
outside of my body looking downward at what was transpiring,
even when alone,
I’m away from myself,
outside of myself,
viewing this mass of man hours,
of waste, sinew and coagulation,
trying to figure out,
contrary to what I believe,
if I am THAT alone,
I haven’t mastered introversion,
until the second self ceases to exist.

Perhaps my children will want the same aversion,
perhaps this is old, old money,
a pass down,
nay, an inheritance of immeasurable proportions,
and like an ungrateful child who didn’t establish it,
I am squandering its value.

Is this a sellable commodity,
teaching others how to comfortably be alone,
or is this a sacred relic,
I should choose who I pass on to?

Perhaps, I just haven’t done enough hours to figure that one out.


The surety of insecurity


You’ve never seen cowardice as grand as mine,
because I hide so well behind brawn and fist,
you’ve never come across a dream like smell,
a mask of perfume lest pungency you whiff.

A distraction, diversion, slight of the hand,
because my struggles you wouldn’t understand,
I swagger with prose and confidence grand,
to keep you from seeing this fragile man.

It’s easy to be brave to stand up with valour,
to show the world the battles you’ve won,
but vulnerability and standing in birds eye view,
is the war that will have you become, undone.

I am the best introvert,
hiding is most definitely my art,
and I am the best extrovert,
when I fear I will fall apart.

Come gather then,
witness me in all my glory aflame,
Afraid, and childlike,
meek, that you’d know my name.

But admit it, haven’t I painted for you,
an image that will haunt your marrow,
I doubt you’ll ever long for confidence and bravery,
perhaps now, you’re softened, to the man alone in sorrow.


writing essence

Unless you’re burdened with a weight upon your shoulders,
a rumble in your belly that makes those near you quake and tremble,
hands that shake like a fein waiting for their fix,
and this happens daily, repetitively, perpetually,
ever a marriage you cannot divorce from,
you’re not writing from the seed of your creation.

There is a place for you still,
but it is not amongst those of us who need the nucleus of truth,
who care not if it means dousing ourselves and striking the match,
just to free a waft of poetic incense into the air of your doubt.

Confidence scares people,
foresight terrifies them,
intuition will make them think you’re a sorcerer,
and all this time, you’re just alone enough to hear the voices they quell.

Crack open the nut and cloak in the Qit-meer of truth

Qit-meer is the word for a lace like barrier that exists between a date seed and the date fruit. It is the filter like, one way passage that sucks all the bitter marrow out of the fruit and passes it through into the seed. Try as you may, a date is unbearable when it is unripe, but once the Qit-meer’s job is done, it is oft forgotten as the martyr that allowed you to enjoy a fruit of immeasurable benefit. Sweetness is often the extrovert, whilst the introvert who absorbed it all remains pale and fragile, withered and forgotten.

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: