Left out,
a foreigner at home,
and back home a foreigner,
friendless in the company of many,
fulfilled in the company of myself,
writing pad on knee,
the pencil involuntarily jots,
randomness to paper,
I think I’m a poet,
an endangered species,
a typewriter amidst laptops.

Be unorthodox,
Basque in non-convention,
pursue dangerous adventure,
and maybe, with time,
savor your uniqueness.

So dull are the schools,
where children are dummyfied,
processed as a form of inventory,
first in, first out.

Innocence forced into structure,
potent imagination watered down,
curiosity’s wings are clipped,
humanity’s future chained to the Titanic.

Hilariously depressing,
how the perfectly choreographed production line,
with predetermined materials and processes,
are repeatedly surprised with the same output.

Push your WILL,
rewire your nerves,
it WILL ****,
with eerie swerves.

Push your WILL,
reprogram your mind,
it WILL thrill,
with thoughts refined.

Push your WILL,
renovate your life,
it WILL shrill,
with aching strife.

Push your WILL,
release your tears,
when time stands still,
you’ve conquered your fears.

Words,
unrivalled in power,
unsurpassed in efficiency,
unmatched in effect.

Words,
extract comfort and warmth,
project displeasure and chills,
a double edged sword.



Words,
so profound are your implications,
simple exhalation of sound,
the softest weapon.

Words,
The true measure of time,
recording the past,
stage setting the future,
the fabric of reason.

Occupy my skin,
delve into my rationale,
an infinitely obscure abyss,
where the compass erratically spins,
and laws of physics are rendered useless,
I SURRENDER myself,
to you.

It feels like ****,
you are inadequate,
throw in the towel,
just go home and quit.

Less useful than a mule,
your insides wanna come out.
you’re puny and minuscule,
drowning in uncertainty and doubt.

Take it from one who's been there,
one who sought approval and praise,
hold your ground and don't care,
at what the spiritless doubter says.

For he lives in a fenced sty,
with the other mindless stock,
and because he cant fly,
he ties you to a rock.

Bipolar tendencies,
my colourful predicament,
the summer heat agitates mania,
the winter cold triggers sadness.

Bipolar tendencies,
both gift and curse,
to view the world soaring as an eagle,
to escape the world’s trampling feet as a cockroach.


Bipolar tendencies,
ignorant bliss and torturous wisdom,
apathy for the attractively wealthy,
empathy for the repulsively poor.

Bipolar tendencies,
both god fearing and atheist,
both the day and night,
both thankful and ungrateful.

When it comes to poetry,
tackling blurred axioms,
losing one’s self in one’s self,
from nothingness explodes the spring,
of prose and verse.


When it comes to poetry,
steering volcanic eruption,
between anarchy and stillness,
from the earth’s insides flows the lava,
of letters and words.

When it comes to poetry,
the wonder of birth,
polarizing sensations of misery and joy,
from it the breathe of new life,
of hope and despair

When it comes to poetry,
treading the razor’s edge,
simultaneously light stepped and rooted footing,
from one extreme to another,
of fear and ecstasy.

When it comes to poetry,
it comes,
when it comes.