Monday, 31 August 2015


Sometimes when you read a verse
The words hit your soul hard
They make you wonder all night
“How can someone fabricate such a piece of art?”

The feeling each syllable holds
Gets carved into your heart
Words inspiring you to weave some of your own
Which might cause the ordinary populace to feel your warmth

With excitement flooding
You pick the quill only to wonder
Would your quill succeed in
Re-creating the magic
You recently witnessed?

You drop the quill
Not because of self-doubt
But because you just know
That some magic tricks only belong
With svelte magicians
And sometimes you yield sweet joy
In being touched by others
Just witnessing greatness…

Thursday, 6 August 2015


A pit that will drown you is Pessimism
Those with glass houses occupying 10,000 acres
Of land are often found saying
A pit that is self-immolating
It can kill; make you struggle hard for breath
That is what Duncan, my next door neighbor
A life coach preaches

But for me it is the reality
The only thing seeming right in
This world quite wrong
Sanguinity might be beautiful but is unrealistic
Vineyards with grapes ripened and juicy
Mock my very existence, reminding me of
Felicity that I could possibly not conquer

Prima donnas , dressed like Monroe
Riding in their Porsche
Who prefer Sinatra’s ‘Fly me to the Moon’
Over ‘Only the Lonely’
Who speak of happiness and all things optimistic
When their souls are broken beyond repair
Contained with mercenary that wise don’t own
Hypocrisy flows through their demeanor (odium intended)

I for one cannot be colored
When my existence reminds only of blackness
If the touch of sunlight on my bare arms
Does not give me peace
Why should I pretend to be serene?
Why should I hide these dark
And morbid thoughts that turn into ink
Filling pages and pages
Covering the pages with fancy prose
Following inappropriate juxtaposition

Jeopardy it is as a few ignorant scholars
Tend to overlook these pages
Pages tattered like my soul
Highly contentious these words are considered
By those whose wisdom is shallow
Silence succumbs, making me
Wonder how terribly might speech
Sabotage their paradigm image

But these fancy unstitched stanzas
Sometimes free sometimes blank poetry
Unpolished proses bear the harsh truth
That this heart holds