He cut hair like a piece of artwork was waiting to happen, and viewed in a gallery. he cut it like it would never grow back. He cut hair like it was his lifes' passion and it was his entire being. The way he cut hair made me ashamed of the lack of respect i had put into my degrees that i had been fortunate enough to have gained in years of not knowing what i wanted to do with my life.

His list of clients meant that he was busy constantly, his feet must have ached, his arms must be tired, but he's always immaculate, he's always dressed for an occasion - white shirt, black trousers and black shined shoes, a silver necklace at the point where his chest met his neck. And for 2 years i went to see him, and for 2 years i sat in silence as he created a marvel, an unrivaled piece of magnificence, whilst i sat in his throne.

Then one day he started to talk. His accent was clipped and short, his english was fair, but it started off with a meaningful question of my health. I was silently overwhelmed. Within the space of two minutes, my respect for this man grew tenfold, and within twenty minutes, a thousandfold.

I did not know where this man came from. I know he was somewhere that had been bad, i know he had moved here and lost everything, because in a hint of sigh, when he talked about something 'he used to do', he changed the subject with a smile, and said, 'that's how it is'. But the face that he smiled, and asked me 'so how was your day, where are your crutches?', put a smile on my face.

I asked him about his work, he told me he was busy, very busy, he worked very hard. I commented that he had people waiting for him, just for him, to cut their hair, i commented that i had travelled 15 miles there and 15 miles back, over 2 years just for him to cut my hair, and with that he meekly ignored my reference to his skilled craft, and said 'that's the way it is'.

Then he told me, 'I take wednesdays and sundays off, because that's how life is, i work hard, for money, that i spend, because that is life, and that is how it is. I cannot take this money with me, the world will not die when i do, it will keep on turning and there will be nothing that can be done with my money when i die'. I don't question his beliefs, i don't question whether he thought he should have a pension, or a will for his children, or a bequest to a charity when he dies, because, he knows, that that is how life is. You either enjoy it now, as it is, or you wait to see if you don't die, and enjoy it then.

And when he talked about his time off, his face lit up, he had a smile on his face, as he cut my hair with various implements and tools, and precision. I kind of thought that this man who cuts hair, is probably more aware and mindful, than 80% of people i know. This made me think that i would like to spend time with him, because i knew that he would have thoughts on the world that he would share, and he would probably do it with a smile on his face.

Do not judge those who you do not know. The best people in life, walk beside you, are around you, service you, work for you, with you. The world is not You, the world is within you, You are the world in all its glory, You make your world what it is, but you are not the World itself. You walk around in a bubble of which the centre is You, but this bubble is created by you for you, for you to survive in this world, everyday. You create beliefs, meanings, perceptions, definitions, understandings and You create a whole new world. Pop this bubble and begin to be a part of the world that surrounds you, take yourself and immerse your magnificence within life itself, that is how you create a world that you live in. Open your eyes.


And for a measly £3.50 i knew that he would take the money and be so grateful, because he would spend it like a King, from the work he made from his throne.

And this barber, in the 4 years that i have know him, never asked my name, but i knew his, and it was Salam.

The beauty of a woman
is in the poems she's wrote,
the dreams she's weaved
and all the stories she's told.

The beauty of a woman
is in the adventures she's taken,
the lives she's touched
and all the minds she's awakened.

The beauty of a woman
is in the caring she gives,
the sincerity in her laughter,
and the passion in her griefs.

It's not the expensive clothes she owns,
her body size, the diamonds she's worn.
Measure not the beauty of woman in gold,
for the beauty of a woman is reflected in her soul.

In left footed underwear,
Left on the floor,
My legs can't find the way out, my palms hardened from the mans work;
Dark and *****, the floor is full of ash,
From a fire we had in front of a fight,
That was lit from the fire in your naked belly,
And the golden spark of guilt in your darkened eyes.
And there is a threadbare mattress that was once clothed,
By our bodies and our sweat, and sleep,
And on the wall in the night, as you vehemently slept,
A thousand decisions were written on the peeling paint,
In calligraphic cursive writing, 'A medieval love affair',
As the heart drew breath in doubting love across the air.
Bare legged jeans, double ending tshirt and a naked bra,
An imprint left on your floor; a lack of interest,
Makeup left in a leather bag,
primal ******, a primary requirement of admittance,
A threadbare rug holds the handprints of many girls before,
Raw knees scuffed the richly spiced darkened stained wool.
Walking away with a left footed boot and a right handed eye,
Casting a backwards look from behind a blue glassed veneer,
Left with a scuffed heel and Viennese waltz dancing in my ears,
The last doorknob I ever touched, wonderland being left to the Cheshire Cat.
Drink me.
Eat me.
Swallow me.
And as I fall he demands,
He said,
'Where are you going?'
'Down the rabbit hole"

See me here, and there, see me, pieces of me everywhere?
See those chains, broken pieces of wood, those broken locks?
See the dust flying and then, all the stopped clocks?
See the piece you ripped out, that girl you ripped from there?
That you ripped me like i was paper, without a care?
Like i were words that you had read and had consumed and become?
Well you read me, gave up, construed an new ending, and now i am not one.
See me standing here, strong, proud and defiant,
see my broken self on the floor, that i protect like a giant?
See that picture of me that shows all, is bare and naked, and true?
see this girl that is too young to understand, that you weren't really you?
see this girl ripped from my soul and my very inner, tenderly safe heart?
Because you had to take me, just, well just because, you wanted to take me apart?
And now i stand here, a warrior, armour, and an axe in my hand,
ready to cut down any predatory seeds you may have planned?
See me like a mother spoon feeding and holding til the morning light?
see her curl inside a foetal position, crying in candlelight.
See me trying to sew her back into place, to where she is safe from harm,
see her pulling, screaming from me, scratch marks down my arm.
See me telling her over and over, you are love, you are loved, you are....
see her wishing she could erase you all, make you die in a car,
or a un-fort-un-ate in-ci-dent, where you realise your deathly wrong,
or  Do you see me now, incomprehensibly, broken but beautifully, strong.
See this hand, holding out for a hand to hold
to gather this girl in her arms until she grows old?
So when you broke those locks and stopped a moment of my time,
you pulled a girl from inside of me, for she was all of mine.
So when you ripped that paper in half in an act of 'incidence'
I now hammer down these nails, steel upon fired steel, building rows of iron fence.
And this girl you forgot to address in your misdoing and ***** way,
now begins to stand, holds out her hand and we sit together and pray.
See me now as i build myself ten times, a thousand times, bigger, wider, than before,
I make a huge fortress in my body for my girl, and pick her up from the floor.
See me standing here, half written and half ripped and torn under the sun,
I can take all that you gave me, be renewed and reborn, we become one.
For she is back here with me now, as i stand tall, tainted and blissfully strong,
for i know to pull myself back together, i have to understand,
It was not my fault, you were in the wrong.

You will never be me, you will never beat me, you will never break us apart,
You will never find solace in your *****, weak, thirsty, starved heart.

I see, you.
No I do.
See you.
Behind the masquerade and party face.
Beneath the dating facade,
There is a stairway that spirals to the depth,
Of your soul,
And you, led me, down it.
Though you didn't know I was there.
I found the locked door without a key.
I found the peeling wallpaper,
Where the damp, had set in, to rot.
I searched high and low for a way in to your sadness.
I pulled the wallpaper, bit by bit,
Still you didn't know I was there.
I stared through the keyhole til my shoulders grew old,
Still you didn't know I was there.
Slowly I began to fade,
Like gaslights turned down in a Victorian parlour room.
My skin peeled away by that doorway,
And I tried to match them to the wallpaper.
I grew thin for waiting to suckle on the marrow,
Of the very bones of you,
That sat behind that lock.
I sat at the door for a sound.
No key.
No lock existed anymore.
I was trapped.
Should I have adventured so far?
I drank you up, like you, you were, were water.
I became flooded in your presence,
And I became a drought in your absence.
I am found in your loss,
I am lost in your found.
Never have I been more warranted,
Than when that door was closed,
And you let me out to see the sunlight,
To visit, once in a while,
When it was permitable,
And I flung myself at the benches, the air,
The very sky.
And down here, the air is not clean,
The acrid hue of life, is marred by the poisonous wallpaper,
Of your very skin,
Inside, revolting, against you;
Because I tend to think,
Did I take these stairs?
Or did you lead me here?
Did you know I was the key?

I want him.
Bare backed, muscle clawed, miracles clenched in fingertips.
Bruises on legs, cuts on fingers, and every, other, bone, that ,
Is exposed to nature.
I want him.
Kisses in the morning, lightly snoring, breathless words,
As he sleeps.
Dreaming of better days.
I want him.
Mud crusted fingernails, face flushed, arctic breath,
Head frowned in concentration,
To tell me what he has read.
I want him.
Morning enlived, running abandoned, feet askew,
Eyes are open wide, wider, widened,
To tell me of that I do not see.
I want him.
Dancing enraptured, limbs snaked, head weightless,
Circle turning, arms led to mine, enclosure,
To remind me of what is, safe.
I want him.
Body *****, skinless, shirtless free,
No thing has an ounce of him, no thing,
Except, my want of him.

The TV plays on in silence in the background,
and i watch it like it's a painting i no  longer understand,
nor want to.
I sit here amongst the noise,
silently hearing the voice in my head repeating the same
dead voices from the past,
though not from dead men, nor women.
And in the silences,
where i should be more aware,
I am, very too well,
as i should be more conscious,
I am, too well,
as i should be more mindful,
my mind, is full.
And if  i should be silent between the trees, breathing,
between the leaves, breathing
the branches, breathing
and the sky, breathing,
I should, take, a breath;
but my feet, they makes this sound
as i walk on  through  life,
reminding me ever so succinctly,
this is just one version of life.
And it should be by the ocean,
the breeze, I am breathing
and the sand, I feel like i am breathing,
where the silence should come to me,
easily, as i breathe......
But the waves, they don't care,
they're here anyway, to remind me,
this is life,
it goes on.
And in each silence in a conversation,
I am lost, because i forgot how to talk from being so quiet
in order to remember who i really am.
So i sit in front of a mourning picture, or i walk through a living
epitome of life, or i stand
at the precipice of the circle of life, and even now,
I am clearly forgotten, in the silence,
of being, me.