you know of blood as thick as honey,
that turns to crystal as it dries
tame me with tender, melt me
with kindness
let me feel that i'm more than

"In the end
It's you.
And, **** it,
It's always
just going to
be you.
So,
I'm simply
not going to fight it
anymore.
You're mine."

a withered husband,
failed by life
tells me the story
that keeps him
up at night-

thrown in jail
for showing his face
in a white neighbourhood
after light

while he was being
waterboarded for
his tardiness, his
wife was being
sodemised by
men in uniforms,
trashing their shack
and leaving her with a
child with blue eyes

-he was left with
ptsd and an infant
that was birthed
out of a crime

he now awaits for an
apocalyptic flood
to take him out of his
grief knowing that the
love of his life went
through hell knowing
he could’ve protected
her from such demise

he now screams to
the sky asking his
cancer-freed rib and
his adopted son
who left him in this
prison - where is
his rope or knife.

-t.m

BLESSED be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A ******, arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
HaIf dead at the top.
Alexandria's was a beacon tower, and Babylon's
An image of the moving heavens, a log-book of the
sun's journey and the moon's;
And Shelley had his towers, thought's crowned powers
he called them once.
I declare this tower is my symbol; I declare
This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my
ancestral stair;
That Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke
have travelled there.
Swift beating on his breast in sibylline frenzy blind
Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had
dragged him down into mankind,
Goldsmith deliberately sipping at the honey-*** of his
mind,
And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a
tree,
That this unconquerable labyrinth of the birds, cen-
tury after century,
Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality;
And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a
dream,
That this pragmatical, preposterous pig of a world, its
farrow that so solid seem,
Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its
theme;
Saeva Indignatio and the labourer's hire,
The strength that gives our blood and state magnani-
mity of its own desire;
Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual
fire.
III
The purity of the unclouded moon
Has flung its atrowy shaft upon the floor.
Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,
The blood of innocence has left no stain.
There, on blood-saturated ground, have stood
Soldier, assassin, executioner.
Whether for daily pittance or in blind fear
Or out of abstract hatred, and shed blood,
But could not cast a single jet thereon.
Odour of blood on the ancestral stair!
And we that have shed none must gather there
And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.

IV
Upon the dusty, glittering windows cling,
And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies,
Tortoiseshell butterflies, peacock butterflies,
A couple of night-moths are on the wing.
Is every modern nation like the tower,
Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,
For wisdom is the property of the dead,
A something incompatible with life; and power,
Like everything that has the stain of blood,
A property of the living; but no stain
Can come upon the visage of the moon
When it has looked in glory from a cloud.

i think im being gaslighted
‘cause i can’t remember why i
feel this disgusted with myself
whenever i’m around you

lately i stopped believing in the magic
of being disobedient of other’s rules
every time there’s pieces of my
belongings scattered and hidden

you with a knife ridge smile
and no sign of grieving for the waves
you stole away from me
i need to run away but i don’t know how

It’s  
    a quarter past four
    In the middle of
    nowhere
                With  a
    full moon on the
    horizon
    I just couldn’t help
   Thinking it’s the
   Perfect time For the
   Wolves to roam wild

   With that in mind
                  I
   Tossed and turned
   No matter what I did
   I just couldn’t fall asleep

                  It’s
   one of those nights  when  
   You have too much on
   Your mind  it just wouldn’t
   Let you rest
   Until you put it
                To rest
   With no other option around  
   I felt like I needed to write
                  Just
   to let some steam out  

                   I
 looked up to the stars
 Above like a wishing Well
            And with
 Pen and notepad in hand
            Poured
 me some moonshine  
            In
 the task of rising up to the
             Stars above
            And Sit back   
Watched the moon
 Merged with my shine

                  You
  know it’s a great
  Night when you’re aiming
              for the stars

            Mind racing
   Excitement beginning
           To build
   Heart pumping
   Pen in hand
   Ready to write
                    Just
               to realized
       I had nothing in mind
                 To write
                    At all

When we were 10, we laughed loudly at the back of the room. Teeth buck, and eyes shut, shoelaces untied and knees untouched. I looked at my own reflection only to see how red the sun had turned me, I chuckled at the peeling, though it hurts, I knew there was more for me to see. There was no need for rouge- just rough. My best friend looked at her own reflection only to see how badly she had scraped the bend of her knee. Ugly was not in our dictionary, but neither was pretty. In unkempt braids, hair bouncing as we chased the pink butterflies we did not intend to mimic. We knew these kinds of wounds would fade. We didn’t realise ugly was supposed to bring more hurt to feel, when it came from girls who thought pretty was supposed to heal. And still, I touch the burns from the steam iron and the far-too-many cicatrices from the concrete. I remember the desire and the bittersweet, my body made a map for the universe to mark out where I’ve been. In my sleep I run through the wild wheat a thousand times over, but I flinch at the idea of female bathrooms and looking past the landmarks and monuments to see dirt roads. And still, we remained burnt, we remained scraped, we remained unkempt.