An aversion to being known,

not unlike a lure to being unseen,

neither here, nor there,

not even in between.
Your eyes fail you,

if you can’t close them and see all that I am,

your heart betrays you,

if you’ve settled on my confines, your hologram.
I’m not yours, his,

hers nor mine,

I don’t belong here,

there, nor in any time.
Hybrid, morbid,

acid and livid,

alive, breathing,

spirited and vivid.
Most people are not brutal enough,

to punish themselves to the point of harm,

a sadism of pain,

to appreciate how alive they are.
The most honest experience I’ve tasted,

is that dishonesty seeps from my marrow,

perhaps here,

there is hope yet,

perhaps in this pool of maim,

this wound licking orgy,

is where I can relish in narcissistic pride,

mortality clenched between jaw and jugular,

that I have something left that resembles a sensitive heart.
And it’s precisely that sensitivity,

that keeps me from you,

worlds apart, worlds apart.
I have no interest in lending,

a fibre, nor borrowed time,

regrets have become,

an easily avoidable past time.

Introversion forty two


I am my own entertainment,
without narcissism.
I am my own refuge,
without oppression.
I am my own solace,
without depression,
I am my own man,
without any chauvinism.

Why would I wait for your entertainment,
when all that is needed is at my beck and call,
the world presents as a splendour of gifts,
loneliness and boredom is the lazy man’s shortfall.


Race, introversion,  gender… 

race gender introversionInspired by a brilliant share by Susan Cain, Article by Kelly Wickham Hurst

Link to article below.

Here are my views on the article.

I can identify a lot with the article because of the similar shared practises that I believe cross over to any ‘minority’  race in a given demographic.

Pretty much my whole childhood and teen youth.

Dux of the school every year,  straight A’s,  middle eastern background male, born and raised in sandy hair, blue eyed Australia, no attention needed, I slotted himself into the mould of inattention by being obedient. No enhancement needed. Don’t need to nurture my skill, refine my abilities, push me harder,  to achieve more,  to be more, to give more of myself.

No, I had to sever from the education system to find myself and it’s taken me twenty years after leaving school, (fourteen after leaving university) out of my life to come to realise what I want to be ‘when I grow up’.

Because the guy sitting in the front row every class doesn’t need as much attention as the trouble maker in the back. Introversion becomes the codeine for a teachers attention as it numbs her/him from seeing you. Even at university level, especially at university level, because young adults paying big dollar need even less attention from older adults, earning enough dollar who also got no attention, vicious cycle.

That is until your art and music  teachers see you differently,  because God just built artists that way, they’re feelers,  they’re knowers, not prattlers, oh and my fifth grade teacher, who all woke me up to the idea I could do something. Still though, they’re just little nudges, not follow through pushing, encouragement enough to steer you or to set you on your course

Are teachers afraid to? Are they under too much pressure by schools, boards, govt to stay out of the business of people and just lambaste material into peoples brains emotionally detached from caring and loving the humans that are struggling to develop in front of them?

What could I have been if I was honed much earlier and didn’t have to wait for the hand of time, which often comes as the bloodied fist, to teach me? Why did time have to refine me all these years later when we offer so much respect and expect our pedagogy to bring out the best of our children?

Why are we fed this lie of education at government funded centres being so important if importance of each child is overlooked?

I don’t have anyone’s answers but my own which is why I decided to stop this downward spiral of events. I won’t let my children be relegated to the back of a classroom as a problem child that needs constant attention, albeit for the wrong reasons, possibly stigmatising them, turning them into self fulfilling prophecies of problems, just because they question everything and won’t take black and white answers, nor will I have them neglected because they’re mediocre and don’t rock the boat (because they are damned behaved), nor will I have them overlooked and not honed and pruned to grow as far up as possible, because they are complicit and do their work.

I’ve tasted it all and my introversion had me questioning these things from a very young age. I was quite aware of what gets attention in class, who gets the extra help during, before and after class. Who’s parents are the ones that are conversed to, what a gurgler of a system we have, so many children lost down it, never reaching the true brilliance they have inside them lurking  because a teacher, for whatever reason doesn’t have the time to devote to each and every child. But, I knew my place, shut my mouth and stayed away from frolicking the feathers of an over caffeinated, underpaid employee of the state.

This is not to blame the teachers wholly, but it is to blame them partially, because that bias, if they search deep within themselves, does exist, I know it does, I’ve experienced it growing up and as a parent, as a homeschooler who has five children. As someone who knows some of his kids just get on with what they’re meant to do and others don’t. I came to this realisation a while ago and spread my attention to them accordingly.

Anyway, rant over, check out Susan Cain’s post in the link below. Do any of you identify with this?


Quiet Black Girls—and How We Fail Them

Cluttered mind


They told me, go for a walk, get some shut eye, clear your mind.
What would they know? Mindless drivel at it’s best because what they don’t realise is, I don’t want my mind cleared.

No, I’m quite happy lingering in these thoughts, sifting through the web of confusion, the echoes of pain that percuss off the valleys and mountains of my soul, haunting it with a northerly wind carrying the scent of uncertainty, through rocks, rustling restless leaves until they settle on the garden beds of meadows and compost into the soil of my heart.

I’ll sit right here in this corner, away enough for you to not be the piece of furniture in your way, quite content to have these thoughts punishing me, rummaging through my being enticing every cell of my body to engage in recreating memories or forging the future.

What you don’t realise is that clearing your mind is emptying your soul of substance.

Pain is there to help you grow.

Confusion is there to help you figure things out, to allow your brain to exercise.

Sadness is there so you may elate in the joy and know it’s value when it hits you in the front teeth, lest you remain an ingrate.

The voices are there not because you’re a schizophrenic, but because they’re meant to keep you company and offer you another perspective to the one you harbour in your heart, be it at the opposite end of the spectrum or merely a few inches away from where your thoughts currently reside, still you need something off course to correct your path and purify it.

Anger is there to keep you on your toes, alert so you never sway from clarity of purpose.

Whatever it is, don’t be a numb and mindless drone, subservient to the commands of the mundane. Ride the edge of your character and crack its whip until your fingers bleed or your mind annihilates.