At some point you have to admit,
that your shadow is daunting,
that fear eclipses your potential,
stiffens you,
paralysing inaction,
remarkably unremarkable.

I was fifteen,
when I realised,
I had a lifelong journey ahead of me,
of taking what I wanted.

It needn’t be like a tyrant does,
that would be too heavy a guilt to carry,
and I have a vested interest in my longevity,
but meekness could not be the badge I wear.

To carry rage,
to contain wisdom,
to bottle up emotion,
a certain kind of fortress,
tight sealing and safe,
both from and to the world,
needs to be built.
Am I romanticising my development,
or am I staring my subconscious dead in the eyes,
I’d say both.

What are you doing to yourself,
and immobile.
Frozen at the crossroads,
of self doubt and complacency.

This comfort you adorn yourself in,
this robe of lethargy and victim-hood,
has to be removed.

A little discomfort,
a lot of exposure,
to elements that make you shiver and shudder,
wouldn’t go astray.

A healthy appetite of fear and apprehension,
won’t do you harm.

All you need,
are sharp tenacious teeth,
to bite at everything that comes your way.

But you can’t have that,
if like a leech you suck the world around you dry,
if you never give off fragrances of your soul,
oblivious and impartial to anything in return,
limelight, entitlement and praise,
the least of your concern.


Millennial privilege 

You won’t get what you want without first offering something to the world.
The idea of default entitlement is ludicrous and shows the futility of your understanding of the world you live in.
I often have to pull myself away from people who are stuck in the rut of holding people or the world hostage, that is literally and figuratively pointing a gun to their head or a knife to their throat forcing them into guilt by holding them to an unestablished standard that they assume is owed to them.
It’s impossible.
You don’t deserve a single thing, not even respect if you cannot demonstrate your worthiness of respect or that thing.
The chronological order is that you must first put out value to receive it.
The world always reciprocates in kind and if you are too shallow to see it, whether literally or philosophically, then at the very least it will fill you with contentment that you have exhausted yourself in courage and nobility to achieve those ends.
#respect #millennials

Unlearning yourself 

​Hands up if this is default,

hands up if the guilt of self scrutiny stops you,

none of this bloat and fodder,

no fluff, no bullshit, no other.
Nothing can pull you from you,

without an ounce of arrogance,

or delusion,


seeing yourself in the third person is the anchor,

you have no false allusions.
Reading yourself like a scrupulous editor,

with interest and utter diligence,

with critique and endearment,

trying to cipher significance.
All this noise and chatter,

it feels so right to want to sever my head,

there’s too much squawking,

there’s too much vying,

my souls aching to be read.
Picture not mine 

The social con


with as much fire as you’re willing to live with.
what makes them pang for more of you.
Drip feed,
the crux of your elixir onto their palate until they taste the metallic feigning of addiction.
Even then,
Keep most of you for later.
This world wants to know everything about you,
and when it does will tell you that you really don’t know yourself,
so it can sell you back to yourself.


When life feels like it’s become an intruder,
like it’s holding a knife to your throat,
when wonder, curiosity and discovery,
are replaced by survival, survival and survival,
when the happiest part of your day is isolation,
perhaps it’s time to lift the veil,
and wake up to the reality,
of this prison I’ve accepted,
perhaps I was it’s architect all along.

When breathing feels like it needs permission,
when you can’t tolerate tolerance,
this despicable hijacking of a word,
that now means;
accepting vulgarity,
accepting idiocy,
accepting mock, sneer, envy, greed, theft,
dishonesty, lying, cheating, and hatred,
then I am the architect.

If I feel all this, there’s hope yet.
I’d be worried my hands could no longer help,
if I didn’t feel a thing,
if I were numb and accepted,
or didn’t even know the knife was there.

Perhaps it’s much simpler,
and I’m just aching for proof,
yes, men also ache for proof.