How do you navigate through all that lurks,
except by admitting all you don’t know.
How do you uncover the truth that works,
if you’re not willing to read and grow.
A page, a line, a word at the very least,
then all that remains is patience and foresight,
watch your spirit rise like yeast.
Iqra – To read or recite.
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,
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
Caffeine coursed veins
Lead to empty hall brains
With no lights on
But echoes of chains
The pains, the strains
The soul drained.
No we’re not at all insane
Just wanting higher plains
Trying to leave our mark, our stain
Not wanting to be contained
Trying to unshackle
Until none of me remains
And my ego does not complain
My spirit can soar, unrestrained
My attention to The Real
Not the profane, not the mundane
And I no longer feign
Sometimes the cacophony of audible and visual abuse is so much to bear that it’s easier to restore your faith in humanity by reclusing to a book.