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Black / Poetry

Knowing you are wrong,
you fight the voice of surrender.
Like salmon, you swim,
against the tides of your sweet candour.

Maybe surrender was the problem,
how you saw all things as war;
one in which you could not keep,
the doors of revolt ajar.

My body bears witness,
to the periods of your war.
Yet my mind still keeps,
this reality afar.

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Burgundy Roses, Lavender Skin

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Mind Matter / Poetry / White

They don’t warn you of all the ills,
that come from staring into–
the well of your soul;
the darkness within,
that curdles to the top;
foamy scum, from a timid heart.

They don’t tell you of all that kills;
all the monsters that wait,
and the death that looms,
ever patient, ever hungry,
within a starving heart.

They don’t tell you of all the pain you endure,
whilst crawling to the door,
after a break in your spirit;
Or the hurt you keep–
hidden away,
within the confines of your soul.

They don’t tell you how to fill,
the hole in your spirt,
for they need you to feel,
feeble and unable,
to carry on–
without them.

They don’t– and yet, expect you to know,
not to grow beyond who they think you are;
to live without, and live within,
the hurt that’s in your heart.

But no, you must not give up,
for what the world says not to you,
is that you still can stand up;
that you still can be loud;
and that you still can grow out–
past all of that inner doubt,
and all that they throw at you,
for even if you do not believe it,
the world is always with you.

Look up to the cosmos, and speak what you desire. Speak with conviction, and speak with strength. For when you do, the universe truly will conspire to give you what you seek.


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Black / Mind Matter / Poetry

The following is a poem in memory of a friend that I recently lost. May you find more peace in the ether than you did down here, young soul.

Timid, was your heart,
in its quest to find some love.
Broken, was your spirit,
when it found nowhere to run.

Happy, floating, calm, and caring;
words to describe the boy that you were then.
Hurt, lost, alone, and scared;
words to describe the boy you have now become.

The darkness that lingers within the confines of our hearts,
need us to know how to tear it apart;
but our frightened attempts to break free from its hold,
can’t ever translate, the helplessness of the spirit, or the bite of its cold.

If only a day before, I knew what I know now,
and a day before, I had reached out to you, how–
a difference I would have made, how–
a life I would have saved.
If only a day before, I knew.

There are no words to describe the gravity of shock,
on the faces of your family,
as they try to make sense of their spinning heads,
in the aftermath of all the secrets that you kept.
Those secrets that ultimately lead up to your death.

There are no words to describe the gravity of loss,
in the hearts of your friends,
who felt they were robbed–
off the chance to have seen you once more–
the chance to have told you once more,
that you are loved, and you are enough;
that you will raise children who’re just as much,
that you can speak your mind, with no fear of being judged,
for you are enough, and you are loved.

Please hear me now, from where you may rest,
the world may move on,
but our hearts stay bereft,
of all the colour that you brought,
and all the words you did speak,
and all those that you didn’t,
and all those we didn’t feel.

Maybe there was no greater intent,
in your hanging, or your death as is;
but my eyes are now open,
my ears ring clear,
my heart is bleeding;
yet I cannot express to you–
how deeply I feel.

But I’m sorry, my friend,
that I let you down.
that we drifted apart,
and I wasn’t around.
I’m sorry for all the times we didn’t speak,
I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for me.

I will treasure each moment that we had spent,
and remember you fondly for being my friend,
at a time when I didn’t have very many,
you were there for me, and that I will never forget.

I believe in a place where our souls will depart to,
when our stint on this planet does come to a close,
I believe I’ll see you there when I leave too,
till then, be well, my friend.

Ergo, I doubt

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Mind Matter / Poetry

Do you recognise yourself,
all of yourself–
on days when you can barely make it to your dresser,
without questioning your motivation to get out of bed?

Do you recognise freedom,
if you’ve never lost yours;
if you’ve only ever seen it taken,
in books, and plays, and songs, and films–
do you then truly understand its loss?

Do you recognise hopelessness,
when thinking about your future?
of how you will grow,
and who you will be,
do you see a glimmer, a shimmer,
of hope for thee?

“I want to go home” I often say to myself,
sometimes when I am at home–
which leads me to believe,
that home is elsewhere for me,
far from the dredges of this world,
and its void of people.

I like walking alone,
because it resonates in my soul–
the lonesome that shall be,
forever my honest companion.

He who is my muse, holds such a dire place in my world–
amidst the oddities of my mind,
and the demons of my heart.

Yours, Persephone.

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Inspired / Shorts

Forget him,
and his name,
leave his throne,
escape his face.

The hell you live in now,
isn’t fake;
He knows–
He made it.

Hades tricked Persephone into eating enchanted pomegranate seeds so that she would have to remain with him for a portion of the year.

And from her lips,
spilt the poisoned seeds of his deceit,
ruby red, and glowing are the ties that bind her now;
enamoured by his false enchantment,
lusting only that which the fruit reflects.

How cunning, how sad,
that the reason she stayed,
was for lack of choice;
for lack of will.

That, Young Innocent,
is not the love that you deserve,
not the love you ought to chaste,
nor the love that you must chase.

deserve more,
for you,
are more.

Wet Earth : Dry Tears

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Poetry / White

The first rains are supposed to be cleansing.

You poured down onto my body,
like a monsoon cloud burdened with rain,
sharing your bounty,
and flooding me out.

The first rains are supposed to be healing.

No fruits from your shower,
grow tall within my soil.
For when you rained, you poured;
and took from me the fertility I kept–
for when you rained, you ruined.

The first rains are never what they seem. 

I can tell when we began,
but not when we will end.
Isn’t that tragic?



Foreign 808s (Heartaches)

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LGBT / Poetry

I see the boys running,
I know that they’re there;
and I know that for me,
they might not care;
yet something within me,
finds home in their eyes,
amidst all the tears,
I’ve imagined them cry.

Inevitably I find myself,
falling deeply, and hopelessly,
in love with strangers from foreign lands.
Inevitably I find myself,
daydreaming about a kiss, or a touch.
Inevitably I begin to lose myself,
within this fantasy inside my mind.
Inevitably I wake. Inevitably.

Meaningless encounters,
seek meaning in my head.
Like meaningful encounters,
with the souls of the dead.

When I learn a new language,
I learn first to say,
“I’m Sorry”, and then, “It’s Okay”;
for then I will know what to say to myself,
when I must pick up the remains of my heart,
when it lays in pieces, in the throes of a foreign dark.

Deep red veins,
through which I now swim–
If only I’d known of your bleeding ocean,
before I jumped in.

Was it your permanence,
that I got comfortable with?
Or was it your words,
that enchanted me so?
kept me low,
and kept me here?

were they even your words though?

Alas, not even the pain may linger,
as I pack up my heart, and pick up my bags,
to embark on another foreign start.
Inevitably I shall sleep once more,
Inevitably I shall wake.
Inevitably I shall lose some more,

The Innocence of Youth

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LGBT / Poetry / White

Their love to dress so gay, and princely,
while running through misty, open fields,
their walking, talking, and breathing free,
their carefree minds that do believe–
in all the good that’s in the world.

The innocence of those young boys,
with eyes fixed in curious study,
at a woman, who in her grandeur does,
garter the ends of her lace stocking-leg;
and think that day, at that very early hour,
that she is who he wants to be.

The innocence of those petite young girls,
who through the haze of their childhood sees,
a man, powerful, smart, and strong,
shouldering the weight of a hundred iron beams,
and thinking that day, at that very early hour,
that he is who she wants to be.

The beauty of innocence,
is the innocence of the young.
The only ones who truly see the sun,
as a bright ball of hope, above them hung,
amidst cloudy lakes of colours a ton–
bless the innocence of their youth,
bless the innocence of my youth.

Addressing changes to come

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Author's note

Hello readers,
I haven’t posted content in the longest time, I feel, and that is because I was taking some time to concentrate on course work, etc. However, I’m back on it, and would like to bring to your notice the changes I plan on making to the site, alongside regular content.

I plan on including more opinion pieces, poetry readings, and art, and maybe a side-thing for soundcloud?
However, this is subject to the fact that I have more time on my hands given that I am in my final year of law school, and it is rather demanding; but what’s the fun in not pushing yourself, eh?

To my regular readers who asked me why I went AWOL, now you know; and know also that the other changes are coming, albeit when time permits, but regular content will be up on the blog every other day 🙂

Thank you all for your continued support.