Introversion is the 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.


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


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.


self conscious – perpetuity

The company of an exhaust hum,
a cicada song,
heat vaporising of asphalt,
or the shore of breaths,
inwards and outwards as you sleep on my arm.

Ice cubes fighting cup walls,
conversations of people,
like I’m not in the room,
the fake smile of a girl,
who just wants to keep her job,
I don’t hate her,
I like her more,
but I wouldn’t converse with her.

Does anyone else,
look for the quietest corner of a room,
and the minute you’re sitting in it,
you’re suddenly the most noticeable person there?

Perhaps then I shouldn’t hide,
but wear the same mask everyone else does,
problem is,
even then, I know I’m wearing it.

Self consciousness,
is utter sensitivity,
a womb of paralysis,
to perpetual analysis.

Your ears ring,
your mind buzzes,
your body vibrates,
and your being hums.

It’s not an exhaust,
it’s not a cicada,
the waves off the asphalt are an illusion,
breath, is syncopation of your soul perspiring,
and that’s just it,
it’s all soul,
always the soul.

Where are you then,
with your works towards it?


Art by martin stranka – meet me half way

Ambition of love

In the recesses of my mind,
I know the mantras,
I know the oft repeated answers,
but that doesn’t make me feel any more  worthy,
worth, such an arbitrary loner,
it hovers in the inter-space of peoples conviction,
bouncing of it’s prison walls,
they keep it there,
a reassurance they can hypnotise themselves into believing,
a comfort they convince themselves,
they’re deserving of receiving.

And here I am, cutting it’s shackles,
unlocking the prison gates,
and leaving it to wander about.

It wants to stay,
and I keep shooing it away.

Entitlement is a delicacy I cannot swallow,
and worth, seems to me a hefty anchor to carry,
who am I to demand it,
who am I to receive it?

The image of my worthlessness,
is lighter, easier to bare,
it’s less work, less care,
worrying about something that’s not there.



Beat this poem out of me,
like a towel against a wall,
let my sand fall,
I’m wet with lust, anger and melancholy,
I’m arid with sorrow, disappointment and worry,
yet I have to endure,
for the breath of seven,
to remain pure.

What traps a man,
between embrace and a shackle,
is the limit of his imagination,
every emotion,
is a welcome expiation,
a meditation,
a realisation,
and we long for the weight to shed,
just to cipher a stanza,
be it spoken or toil through fingers,
contorted in sinew and spine,
whether the work of heart,
or absent of mind.