introversion forty nine

I know what regret looks like,
and it involves unreachable things,
dim sightedness and satiating an ever lustful urge.

It occurred to me,
you may be waiting for another set of eyes,
I understand,
I recall witnessing another man accept the same fate.

I wont hold you to account,
nor scold you,
when you waltz them past the boundaries,
you’ve reserved for me for all these years.

I know, it’s hard to look at mine,
see their weariness and be inspired.

Perhaps, you’ll grow to love loyalty.
I’ve witnessed that too.

And the result was regret,
and never a meal eaten without his memory,
a years weeping,
until her eyes wished they never allowed another man’s eyes to touch her.

But that was just an occurrence,
and what does a child know about a grown man’s eyes,
or an uninspired woman.



If you don’t move, you’re pungent.

The irony is,
you need to experience movement,
at its extremity,
to realise the importance of being void of it all.

If you take movement, to be purely physical,
you’re yet to grasp just how much you don’t know,
and are stiffer than you realise.

Your body, mind, heart and spirit are longing for things you’re depriving it off, under the faint notion of faux-choice, intellectual prattling.

You’re not choosing, you’re just ignorant of how things work.


match made in-between lines

There’s quite a lot of wordsmiths,
an art, just like a blacksmith,
you can beat into you.

But only the hands burnt in bellows,
charred face and eyes jaundice yellow,
liver blackened by the anger,
the hurt, the love that still mellows,
will be able to raise your hairs on end,
speak of beauty and sorrow,
play out lines,
like an aged cello.


feminist delusions

Whenever I hear a female say such a thing,
I about face.
I know, for a fact, with total surety,
she’s a bad woman.

If you have good in you,
you know there is good in others.
It’s as simple as that.

Dilute it,
cut it,
carve it,
mix it,
contort it
and philosophise,
whichever way you like,
it remains,
as simple as that.


I’m tired of listening to garbage women be cheer leadered on by other garbage women whenever they regurgitate these bland mantras like as if Moses came down from the mountain and revealed divine scripture to her.

Women, perhaps hard done by with a bad man who then take it upon themselves to muster support through social circles by writing off half of humanity.

Guess what?
We’re someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s father. Take your shit attitude and remain with your shit people and leave the goodness to us, we don’t want you in our social, familial, cultural or spiritual circles anyway. Otherwise, grow up, try and develop and become a great person, irrespective of the cards you’ve been dealt.


“VERILY, for all men and women who have surrendered themselves unto God, and all believing men and believing women, and all truly devout men and truly devout women, and all men and women who are true to their word, and all men and women who are patient in adversity, and all men and women who humble themselves [before God], and all men and women who give in charity, and all self-denying men and self-denying women, 38  and all men and women who are mindful of their chastity, and all men and women who remember God unceasingly: for [all of] them has God readied forgiveness of sins and a mighty reward”

Quran 33:35

*38 Guarding ones private parts

To be clear, the quote was from the song ‘You should love, what you know of me’ -Johnny Bang Reilly

settling the score

There’s scores yet to settle with myself,
for now, there’s another breath,
another heave,
another mouth to feed,
and dusty, they’ll wait patiently,
amongst collections of poetry,
on the highest shelf.

How to settle a score with yourself;
give it what it needs,
then demand of it what you need.

I haven’t the time to deal with myself,
and I haven’t found a person,
save for my teacher who is thousands of miles away,
to have enough to offer me,
both in sincerity,
and in complexity,
but in utter ability,
and ironclad conviction,
to show me the miseries,
and realities,
of me.

procrastination is a middle man,
a soothing hand,
a woman on demand,
a balm of crux,
if ever there was a dichotomy of reconcile.

It is genderless,
one minute savage,
the next, tender.

How did I arrive,
at loving and hating myself with such fervor?
How did I become stiff,
how did I contour?

The paralysis,
my nemesis,
seems to be all inside of me,
and I won’t let anyone in to see.


hear no, see no, feel all

It owns you.

Play pretend until your last breath,
but you’ll forever be it’s slave.

One sin, two sins, three sins four,
soon, you won’t feel,
you’ll just want more.

Five sins, six sins, seven then eight,
try to pay it off,
it will be too late.

Nine sins, ten sins, and on it goes,
before you can pay it off,
you’ll be someone you don’t know.

It bites, it gnaws,
it’s the cracking jaw,
it reminds you with every chew,
of the reality of you.

The bite that can’t be digested,
purity gone,
by your own hand molested.


I’m amazed (and laugh inside) when people take the wrong things they do so lightly, not in mock or jeer, but in pity for the ignorance of what they will inevitably be indebted to. That stuff doesn’t just go away. Try as you may to pretend your conscience is switched off and it doesn’t bother you, deep within, it haunts and chips away at you until it manifests in other ailments.

Sometimes it takes time, but it lurks and waits for the opportune moment to collect and when it comes knocking, there’ll be nothing you can do but admit your folly, your arrogance and ignorance.

Sin is glorified, like one can raise their head in pride for the shit they do, for the hurt they cause and parade themselves as being honest, bludgeoning the word, the meaning, bastardising it and uprooting it from it’s intended purpose.
‘At least I’m honest’, they mantra like being filthy, being vile and being loaded with immorality is pardoned by a simple admittance. Shame? What shame? Shame is ridiculed to the derelict corner of uncool. It’s cool to be a piece of shit these days and wear that like a badge of honour.
You may hear no evil, you may see no evil, as you’ve shifted the metrics of measuring evil, but you’ll feel it all, eventually every last bit of it.


Anxiety, the liar

It takes a lot of stepping in and out of yourself,
to know anxiety,
is a host you don’t entertain.
But most don’t travel in deep enough,
or away far enough,
to get an honest view of it all.
Instead, they entertain and feed it,
with the sugar and junk food of being,
with self coaxing,
blurring to a fine film of self loathing.

-Wesam El dahabi