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 

Unliking yourself

What do you find at the end of it all,
at cutting out bits,
attaching more,
trial fits,
Frankenstein gore.

Alot of loneliness,
inside loneliness,
inside an outer display of comical amicability.

Buoyant temporality,
until the newer version of you,
drags the older down,
to stand on his shoulders for a breath.

Fucken savages we are.


introversion – thirty one

introversionthirtyone introversion – thirty one

until your palate
is indifferent to vinegar or honey
you still have work to do

until the bitterness stops passing your lips
your body still needs to be deprived

until your heart abandons ill thought
there’s punishment yet to met out


a premature death to the outer
leads to life of the inner
how else am I to address
this vile sinner

the sincere makes no excuse of his condition
until the reality of your sin tastes so foul to you
that you no longer can palate the sweetness
of anything.


Introversion Impulses – 1

The only way for me to connect with you is to disconnect from myself, now that can’t happen, it’s taken me this long to get some current running through my veins, to find a stillness in a swamp bed where all my pungency can lay dormant, and you, with your optimistic rays of sunshine want to disturb all that, bring to surface stenches that I had buried, awaken angels that I slayed, who slayed my demons, who slayed my soul, who slayed the me, the I, the carnality of breath, the inhalation of certainty, the rigidity of polarity, that space in between, I created it, I ploughed its fields and toiled its soil until it became soft enough to nestle there and all you want to do is bring those poles together, light my extremities with union, voltify my mind until it burns to a crumb, what little of it left there is, you with your happiness want to bring a smile to my face, for what, what possible reason, why, who sent you, what do you want from me, you lie, you have ulterior motives, I don’t believe you, leave me alone, I’m fine, I can’t breath with you in the room, I created this room with just enough space, enough oxygen for one, you’ll die being in here with me…. away, away, away, can’t you see my act of kindness?

The above will be my new series on introversion.
The last post for the introversion series was introversion thirty. Short poems, anecdotes, musings, thoughts etc. I may continue another series but for now, the new format will be impulsive, immediate thoughts.
Whenever I get a chance I will pen it, in the above style, unbroken, with little regard for punctuation, grammar or writing rules. They will be exactly as you see them, random, raw and real and time sensitive. They cannot be conjured and planned. They will just be expunged. I hope you enjoy.


Introversion – thirty


Were it not for the spectacle of extroversion,
I would have committed suicide a long time ago.
But there are no creative ways to die that have
inspired me yet.

So I died on the outside, to the world I am dead,
 and live on abundantly, on inside instead.


It would be much easier to leave me be,
Forget my existence, ignore your attempts at civility.
Don’t question yourself, with your soul plea,
Ignore your heart, get off your knees.

I’m numb to it all, I don’t feel anything more,
I’m struggling even, my children to adore.
I’m barren and empty, stricken and sore,
I have no enigma, I have no lore.

Nothing to offer, nothing to take,
No heart swell, no heart ache.
Mindless and cold, still as a lake,
Slumber escapes me, forever awake.


Introversion – twenty eight


Go on, have one today.
Spoil yourself with something immaterial.
Have a conversation with yourself in secret.
Don’t let anyone see you. Hide your schedule from your spouse and children.
Pretend you’re doing something else.
Pretend your busy.
Switch off your phone and pretend the battery ran out or don’t answer and pretend you didn’t hear it.
Say you had to work back.
Candlelight dinner, with yourself in a park, with a book.
Wear your favourite perfume / cologne.
Get dressed for the occasion.
Rent a hotel room for the night, just to sit and read, meditate……….


Listen to your breath.
Or is it all too much to handle?
Too hard to be that intimate with yourself?
Why have we become so disconnected, so dishonest?
Who are we cheating?


Introversion – twenty seven


Monologues in solitude,
Are gardens of plenitude,
Increases of aptitude,
And amplitude of gratitude.

If it is irking you that we spend so much time alone, it is probably best you find someone closer to your social temperament.

We engage in such an internal monologue it would make you dizzy to listen. We’d make extroverts seem like mice, if only you could hear, if only you could tune in.

Granted, there are a few of you out there with such a vibrant frequency, you hear us, quiet as we may be, busy with out inner ball, you hear the noise, the music and the laughter you see the artistry. You enjoy us for who we are and in return, you receive an unrequited love. We’re drowning in our own swarm of felicitous calm and you allow us to continue on, undisturbed. How can we not love you back?

The gardens we frolic in are sagely and lavender embalmed, our intellect heightened merely from inhaling the scent until every cell in our body responds it a gratuitous love that has you begging for more of our silence.