Indistinct conversation
with impeccable depth
and heaviness of the heart,
the dialogues exchanged between
yourself and your healing self.

You cannot blindfold me
and walk me into a room
full of your hopes and dreams
and expect me to
build my life there.

Poetry is Art & Art is Poetry & You are Both.

Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.

In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.

The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.

The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.

The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.

The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”

To describe depression would be like,
a power outage in an entire district
and you are the singular light bulb
running on the inverter/generator
glowing in the dark room,
keeping the darkness at bay.
But as time progresses
and the inverter charge starts to recede,
the light bulb starts to fluctuate
and the dark takes up more room
as the light trys it’s best to keep burning.
It fades in and fades out.
The filament dimming with time.
A never ending battle with the dark
until the electricity is turned back on.

As life ripens your soul,
when love breaks your heart,
I'll be at your doorstep,
patiently longing,
waiting for you to let me in
to be by your side,
through everything.

Us poets,
We perforate the darkness within us
with the light of the Sun.
Soak ourselves in melancholy
like a worn out sponge
and call it inspiration.
Spite like a trail of gunpowder
lit with mad passion
and fulminate onto a piece of paper
tranfused from the nooks of our hearts,
white turns red
coarse in red,
red with lingering passion.

Into
Something digestible
for discening eyes
thoroughly wayward among wilted leaves
vagrant souls with their mouths
stitched because of
the dolour of misunderstanding
hissing with the wind in search
of something or someone
to relate to.

We make it seem like we're not so alone in this world.

Her changing moods
are just like
the phases of the  *moon.

If you want to know a person’s current mood,
eavesdrop on the song they are singing in the shower.

I like the anticipation
as the phone rings to
the sound of your voice.

You were not the rose, but the thorn.

With the close of each day,
and after every heartbreak
I come to the same realisation that,
You were the one and I let you go.

Darling, you were the captor of my heart
and I swear I loved something more than
my freedom for the first time.

One day when you'll wake up
and make sense of  the sadness
you've been put through.
You'll make decisions,
brush up the happiness buried in your soul
the feeling you were used to
and you'll hear purpose
calling you by your name.

I sighted the first dimension of the world when I first opened my eyes and saw my family, when I crawled on my knees and bit my little sister on her cheek, curiously peered at the galaxy that hung above her cradle.

I spotted the second dimension of the world when I felt a familiar hand pulling me up after
I fell down on the ground, leaving blood trails in the sand.
Waiting for the dust to settle, we assembled, the bell rang.
Tom foolery and first taste of success and defeat.
The first ***** of betrayal
and liaring practices.
Tom foolery and  a million hearts-crossed. Ageless friendships and lesson of life that wasn’t in the syllabus.
That abode that was school.
A remarkable reminder of the simple times.

I saw the third dimension of the world when I laid my eyes on your beautiful face.

And she whispered
"I never comprehended
The Universe to be tangible"
as she held him in her embrace.

I am not okay, and I am okay with that.

Our memories bridge the distance by which we’re seperated.