Boring people


I’ll never let the monotony of neglect,
lull me into boredom,
persuade me into comfort.

I cannot associate with bored people,
they’re too dishonest to admit,
they’re lazy.

There is always something to do,
a lesson to learn,
a page to read,
a mouth to feed,
a bill to pay,
something to fix.

Fixing myself,
has occupied me,
from the moment I became aware,
of my lowliness.

When my ego stood broad shouldered as I,
cold stared me in the face,
and put up its fists,
I knew boredom,
would become a word that left my vocabulary.


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.

-Introversion forty five

We’re closed things,
barren things,
in the midst of noise,
only silence rings.

And it is our ring,
married to a widow,
she hovers over us – protective,
haunting all those who attempt,
forcing them to flee,
and leave us alone,
we’re no home.

I see your palm ever stretched towards me,
but I am struggling to rise to worth,
in recognition that I am of merit,
how strange I repel myself,
repulse myself,
in turn reject you,
before you have the chance to see me.

I’m happy to remain a waft,
a passing zephyr of musk and wood,
that you can never wash away,
that you’d obsess over to stay,
I know, we’re a selfish lot,
apparently distant and alone,
longing, but such a despot.



Grow my hair,
lose my mind,
lose my hair,
grow my mind,
that’s how I justify it now.

But when it all came off,
I knew I was burrowing.

Such a simple, superficial action,
was the beginning of returning,
the distant whisper,
the call and yearning,
the axe grinding blacksmith,
the mill of churning,
the end of me,
the beginning of learning,
it’s impossible to hear,
without the inward turning.


not by choice

Why thank you for the compliment,
but I must be frank,
I am no sage,
I am no guru.

If you admire patience in me,
know it didn’t come through spiritual awareness,
nor grinding the axe against my ego.

It’s this anchor that never leaves,
holding down my tongue, my limbs and my very being,
from devoting myself.

I have no other default, it’s all or nothing,
and I choose and have withered to nothing.

Social anxiety doesn’t even register as a blip,
nay, I have to return to being alone to find a semblance of sanity.

If you see patience,
it’s because I can’t engage with you any more,
not because I have spiritual magnificence,
it is numbness and indifference.

The skill of sociability,
is a well oiled machine,
and I,
a derelict cog,
free spinning down the road.


Sorrow seeds


I had a choice a long time ago,
of what to do with all these pockets of alone,
hands buried deep,
on cold playground mornings,
finding it hard to connect,
with the absent-mindedness of youth,
spending more time swimming in my thoughts,
watching everyone avoid truth.

Nothing much has changed,
except my hands are no longer fists inside corduroy,
no longer sweating,
with lunch money in one hand,
and a bag of marbles in the other.

Now they breathe,
and make soothsayers,
and palm readers draw blank faces,
when they see that I can read them first,
and that my palms bare sorrows traces.

When they see I have learned the embraces,
of having grief and sorrow vie for my attention,
of having them both smother me,
with their tender graces.



It’s the distance between guitar strings,
the separation, silent,
longing for a fingers touch,
so together they sing.

It’s the distance between butterfly wings,
and realising, it’s the pulling away,
from each other,
that keeps it floating.

It’s the distance between wolves howling,
aren’t they longing,
the moon shining,
just as lonely as mountain  wind.

It’s the distance of separation from the King,
hearts ever aching,
longing and wanting.

Still yet, despite the thronging,
solitude remains the calling,
to knowledge of God and you,
the awakening and relief from waiting,

it’s how a poet, can keep writing.