-Sorrow’s window

-Sorrow’s window

I’m not one for intimacy with just anyone,
But lately sorrow and I have found company in each others arms.
There she is, at three AM, a mistress when the world thinks your sleeping.

Fishnets luring, long legged in stilettos,
All she does is stroke your hair,
‘Let them point, let them stare’,
She comforts you quite aware,
Of all the eyes of scorn unaware,
Of your mourn,
Black mascara dripping, dark cape of despair.

Sorrow is a morsel too hard to chew, too jagged to swallow,
Mastication, the gatekeeper reluctant to stop it from entering.

It’s a blunt knife bludgeoning away at callused carotids,
Neck too loaded with the burden of looking up,
For hope,
That ease swings your way.

It’s a war of the heart,
Poetry at one end of the battle field,
And vices at the other,
And taking pleasure in both,
Until you have neither.

My sorrow yearns for tomorrow,
It thinks time will make it amnesic of today,
And yesterday, and the day before,
It fools me into sleeping,
And worse,
Into waking,
Expecting a different outcome,
But there it is,
re-energised in full display,
Ready to drown you another day.

It’s the anchor that floats for the fuck of it,
Like the ball and chain of the mast-less ship,
That carries me, this vessel of in-confidence,
Of fragile unknowing, vulnerability,
Ready to be taken whichever which way the seas sway.

If you thought for a moment I display an air of confidence,
Flee now before you get wallowed into the sty I’m stewing in,
You have no idea what my daily routine consists of.
From the moment I wake, the lack of filter is not something to herald,
Seeing too much, feeling too much, thinking too much,
It eats at the very fabric of your make up,
Forcing you to analyse the most trivial of matters,
The simplest of actions and makes you question yourself
On everything. Every niggling detail.

How did I wake up, how did I sleep in the first place?
Where am I, is this still a dream, why is my heart beating harder?
Why is it slower, why is my mouth parched, did I miss the prayer?
Is my intention there, quick make ablution prepare your sorry state.
Will you pray from your heart, or are you mechanical today?
Re-do your ablution, you weren’t mindful. Re-do your prayer you were still sinful.
Did you turn your soul to God, or are you a pretender, prattling, preaching to the paupers, pandering to the princes, poet, perturbed and pawned to the pied piper of spiritual poverty, poetic justice for your pretentiousness!

Ah but we haven’t even hit five thirty AM,
There’s still more sorrow, more introspection,
More introverts reflection, indecision, hyperventilation,
Intellectual masturbation, procrastinations of deliberations,
No alterations, day in and day out,
But to you my presentation,
Appears fine, well and without need for alteration,
It’s society sanctioned,
Tick of approval for civilisations consummation.
I’m palatable with this mask of normalisation,
It’s a colour of sanity acceptable to our denominations.

The sermons of demonising our sorrow into the fancies of,
Psychologist nominations, into diagnostic manuals of arbitration,
Unfiltered, unchecked, unscientific aberrations,
Ignorant humans with no intent of humanisation.
We’re fucked
As separated from humanity, as divided as nations,
And by our own hands have succumbed to these separatist sterilisations.

Sorrow is awareness with no filter,
Open season on your mind shooting itself,
War of soul vs heart vs ego vs mind vs self vs spirit,
And no motherfucker wins it,
But sorrow sits and grins at it.


The art is by Andreas Poupoutsis and is called, the Hidden Identities by Andreas Poupoutsis, available here:


Some men are attracted to,
All that glamours and shines,
The beauty I see, is of a different kind.
It’s not her body, heart or her mind,
It’s her pain and scars, earned through time.

She dragged her thoughts around like a velvet robe. Blood dripped from her collar bones, where the robe was sewed with threads of sinewed time, the weight of her thoughts enough to tug at her skin, keeping wounds fresh to never heal, never to seal.

Even so, she could drag that robe across dry arid lands, over mountainous terrains and through forests of haunting whilst other women struggled with a hairpin.

She, with her battle scars had my heart amongst the maiden beauties. I wanted to eat her pain, lick her wounds, balm her in comprehension because no one else could digest her.

I have a stomach for those kinds of women.


Graceful black



She was the type, that women wanted to emulate.
She walked gracefully, posture perfect, draped in designer label sorrow.
Her shoes did not even touch the ground as she appeared to glide over surfaces, leaving no print on the earth.
Her sorrow wasn’t a burden on anyone, rather it was an inspiration.
A fresh waft of frankincense and white musk warmed with notes of heart clasp if she happened to raise her gaze your way.
She wore her sadness the way women struggled to wear joy, made theirs seem pseudo.
Tissues and handkerchiefs; her servants, waiting in cue to catch her tears but she never let one drop. Mascara run was not her thing.
Her secrets became her ability to cut through a crowd of chaos and demand silence and bewilderment, entrancing the mob until the crows that accompanied her flapped their wings past them.
And just like that they would all awaken, wearing black.


Unblameworthy wails


We wail, we wail,
Our souls are frail.
We wail, we wail,
Down trodden spirits to sail.
The only time when our wailing,
Is not our failing,
Not our sinning,
But our singing,
Our clinging,
To Him,
From the beginning.
We wail but our eyes are dry,
We wail and our bodies lie,
We wail with nothing to hide,
We wail and in You confide,
Hold us naught to account,
For we wail only on the inside.


Dear Lord,
We do not despair Your lot to us, be it You take the souls of all our brethren, we accept Your wisdom in doing so.

We wail for our own condition, only You and I know.

I present to the world as one thing but the pits of me are only Your secret.

Thank you for creating this inner theatre for my orchestra to sing,
For it to call upon you and bells to ring,
To enchant my organs with poetry and verse,
To remove my woes and lift my curse.


She’s damaged goods.



She’s the ship wreck on the shore that everyone loved to look at, dwell in her confines, and listen to her stories even though she didn’t say a word. They all thought she made the shoreline ugly, rust, decayed wood and wails of the wind that bore her sorrows but no one dared remove her.

She was a reminder of how fortunate they were and also how boring they were. They couldn’t bear to be the spectacle of ogle like she could. She took it with a throw of her white sail, and a flicker of mascara, sly smiling bow but her plank was there, solid and anticipating her next traitor.

What presents itself as damaged goods is often the most passionate and generous. They may not offer material, but they can sail you on a sea of impossible storms, loves crashing waves, the oceans darkest bottoms and wash up after the storm, another piece wrecked off them, but still mesmerising.

The problem is with cowards who don’t want to salt their faces and tan their hearts.


The Narcissist


She wanted him so dearly, at his request, she dived into his heart of sorrows.
Infatuated by his accomplishment to win her heart, he failed to realise she was drowning there.

He jumped into the darkness that engulfed her but being so narcissistic, he could not see her.
He marvelled at his own sorrows and killed them both.

How NOT to be a muse

women black and white artistic tears monochrome sadness_www.wall321.com_79

Are you longing to be a source of my pain?

Just so your ego can revel in the joy of knowing you were able to extract from me syllables to fashion some prose.

To meter some emotion.

To prattle some words.

I can change my medium like a snake sheds it’s skin.

Akin, to your liking.

So you can hear the words you long to hear,

Just audio on ear.

Be wary, as you’re lost in the marvel of the fashioned words,

That I harbour a hatred towards you.

Whilst you bathe in the romanticism of you,

I drown in the confusion of suicide contemplating this grotesque thing you made me do.

Forcing me to write.

I don’t know how to write letters of begging and wont save you as you struggle with your thoughts and haven’t the skill to put ink to paper.

No, you’ll probably inject ink to skin.

A faded tattoo of my name on your aged skin, your children will ask you about,

That you will cry incessantly every time about and teach your children the idea of contentment from.

You’ll teach them not to scatter bed sheets if you don’t intend to sleep.

You’ll teach them not to rattle the hive if you don’t want to be stung

You’ll teach them not to kick the loyal dog if you don’t want teeth gnawing at your soul for the rest of your life.