-love letters

I am saddened at the thought that a whole generation of young women will never have the opportunity of receiving a love letter.

Articulated, be it as poetic as Byron or as simple as a child’s innocence, with love and soul, carefully crafted, paper selection, ink and script, fragranced to suit your temperament, cursive leaning towards you as they cannot contain themselves from their advance. They are brimming to the top with ecstatic elation and a sorrowful hope that their efforts are realised and received.

No, instead, his love is a finger swipe away.

-W.E.

dear grief – 9

dear grief – 9

You don’t sound like a cello,
stringing it’s sorrow,
more like a ney,
I have no idea how to blow,
soothing to play,
for those who know,
but for me,
simply a cylindrical hollow.

Am I shallow?
Perhaps indifferent,
Melancholic mellow,
Or a blackened and charred,
Fume from bellow,
blacksmith of loss,
Hardened and rigid,
Smog filled swallow.

W.E.

Music by Kudsi Erguner

In coffee cups

‘it was caffeine she was after, not her fate’ – Elif Shafak, The bastard of Istanbul.
Genius writer
Is it my fate I’m chasing,

in all these copious amounts,

of coffee drinking.
Is it an answer from the unknown,

I’m waiting to be shown,

holding to account,

a coffee bean,

a baristas hand,

to black and gold elixir sinking.
I need an inkling,

a semblance,

a sign,

something,

to steer me,

show me,

and enhance my thinking.
W.E. 

Elif is the #muse of the day. 

no regrets

no-regret
And what does all your fortune bring you?
emptiness, artless.
I rarely regret anything,
except if I’ve transgressed the divine laws of my maker.
Regret is a wingless sparrow,
a fleeting severance from gratitude,
short-sightedness of present opportunity,
men and women vying to wrestle destiny to its knees,
deplorable delusionals,
barred from beauty.
Regret is the punishment you ironically wallow in,
self harm, void-acuity-hollow.
You can’t plant anything there,
water it, nurture it or give it to the sun,
all you do is create a desert inside yourself.
Parched lips know how wonderful moist lips are,
you can’t say the same for the opposite.
W.E.
*expansion on a line from a previous poem

Introversion is the new black

introversion-new-black

But where were you all,
when we were stuck inside ourselves,
like discarded books on dusty shelves,
now, all of a sudden,
you won’t judge a book by its cover,
want to get to know us,
inside us delve.

For us it’s not a trend,
not a hash tag,
we’ve been alone, discarded,
convoluted, since twelve.

You know, that age,
when we’re meant to bloom and connect,
we’re ignored,
because we internalise and reflect,
we think and dissect,
we analyse and inspect,
we won’t look outward,
nor deflect,
we find the nuts and bolts of it,
like architects,
build from the inside out,
upwards and erect.

So when you see that timid boy,
or that hidden girl,
spare a moment to reflect,
about their world,
before that insult,
before the stigma,
you carelessly hurl,
because one day you’d realise,
through all that time alone,
all that time inside,
they’ve been whipping up their character,
fortifying their soul,
and waiting for the time,
to reveal their pearls.

W.E.

If you’re not one, don’t fake it, we can see you a mile away.

balance

balanceCowardice,
has subconsciously become the default,
men and women overwhelmed,paralysed,
submerged in laxity, passiveness and gluttony,
too busy being fed the lie that they matter,
and all that matters is taking care of themselves,
putting themselves first,
and thus they grow,
age, and un-mature,
yes, UN -Mature,
candles flickering barely keeping a semblance of light inside them,
and never develop the character and spine it takes to help others.

Cowardice comes from never being vulnerable,
cowardice comes from believing your own hype,
never taking one on the chin,
just to see what it feels like.

Both the warrior who won’t engage his soul,
and the sage who won’t engage his sinew,
are complimentary cowards,
bathing in faux austerity of  character.

W.E.