I was teetering on the edge
I couldn't tell you for how long
Praying that I wouldn't fall
Hanging on, staying strong
After some time there
I was fine, continuing on
Then an unseen force pulled me over
I was gone
I was falling through space and time
Into the distant past
A past of misery and darkness
That I thought I had escaped at last

I am still falling
Falling through the darkness, blind
The edge that was once my refuge is long gone
Out of sight, out of mind

Out of time

Intimidated by political thugs
Prone to insert in one's mouth
The nose of a loaded gun
Or suspend a plastic bottle full of water
On males' reproductive *****,
Devoid of freedom of expression
Also denied  to his right and
Deplorable condition drawing attention
Shunning his God chosen land,
What is more a bright and warm country
Under the sun ,a journalist dreaming began
Fighting all odds between
The deep blue sea and the angry Satan
To migrate to a better place,
Where for democracy
Avowedly there is a better space,
Inhabited by civilized people,
Averse to discrimination based on race!

Burning his boat,
Crossing desserts,
Crammed with other refugees,
Packed with him in a boat
Some trying  to reverse
Their economic lot,
Surfing uncharted waters
Seeking a paradise on earth
He headed to the country he sought
Though some their lives
At the hand of brutal traffickers lost
Beaten and thrown out of the boat,
Also at a port
Suspected of a terrorist bent
Many migrants to prisons were sent.

After a humiliating acid test
Why for a dreamland his country he left
As migrants' bane
They placed him at the foot
Of an ice-clad mountain.
“I will never see
My country again,
You are trying my patience in vain!"
He vowed
Despite the razor-sharp cold untold.

Then they took him up higher
An epitome to a cold fire!
Once more
He put his foot down
Putting on more clothes and
Changing attire.

They placed him
At the mountain's helm
As hell dark
Where the angel of death
Is seen stark.

Then in his head
Something began to bark
“*You rather choose
the better evil
If both your assailants and hosts
Are no two different devil! *"

Seeing first hand
Those with cold shoulder
Assylem seekers adore to attack
Though there are
Few not off humanity's track
At last he decided to return back
And under his country's sun bask
Mum for his rights to ask
Killing his journalistic knack!

What traces of life lives in the mind?
Is it the good, the bad, or the ugly this time?
I survive on the expectation that you'll still be there,
But knowing what you've chosen.
This parts left unstable,
Either true or untrue.
I don't know,
And remaining in such tears me so.
So what choice remaining do I choose?
And what in the end will I lose?
This is the battle of my minds refuge.

"I want to go home."
We underestimate the meaning of that phrase.
A phrase said by children so small it's considered childish.

What a small statement full of such power.
I've never understood the depth of it until now.

Home is the people who love you in spite of your shortcomings.
That is what home feels like--complete acceptance.

"I want to go home" really just translates to "I need to feel loved."
And that is not childish, in fact that is a simple truth not everyone is strong enough to speak.

I'm empty on my life's journey.
It's time to fill up.
And home, well home has the good stuff.

When things grew into necessary betrayal, people took aspirin. I ran. Everyone dream of running, I feel it too often and then I forget my legs, the little spirit inside me and pretend to be a slave, caged and beaten. There's a conscious forgetting which is needed, the other aspirin. But you **** the beer, throw cards, break the plates and kick the half empty bottles and you run..run through the streets, the crowd, the dingy lanes and you rest your head on the ground.

A discordant gain
moves through the hall
echoes off every wall
and reverberates again
through my chest cavity.
my ribcage thrums  
obstinate, hopeful
it is a clear fullness
it is the water that I carry.
The cistern is broken
but
it has been sealed in gold
that reflects the light of
things that have been, are, or will be
and it is the lightning fracture
that appeals to Him now
more than the gold itself.

I know your
heavy lead-heart, lead-limbed
sorrow.
I know the iron nails
your mind would drive
up into your own veins.
You crucify yourself not every three days
but every day
every night
every hour.
It is the lightning-fracture
that reminds you of this place
moreso than the gold ever could.
The high, dissonant clattering
in the world
drives into your dryness.
I will give you water
but to hold it, you must seal
your cracks, yourself.

I take refuge in poetry
Where poverty blossoms
Women’s feet leave not a print
And the stomach gets drunk on tap water.

Imprisoned in a shed, situated
At the back of my mind I have
Scared life away from me
‘Tis also the case vice-versa
I try to keep a harmonious tongue
But good people? You have
Witnessed for yourselves
Some folk crave a brutal answer.

The primitive man
With qualifications
The sober man
With hallucinations
The right honourable gentleman
With wrong un-honourable expenses
I take refuge in poetry
Squatting between the sentences.

We don’t really know exactly
What we are doing, we just follow
Things and see where it takes us
Never mind purchasing luxury
To even get a smile is all “subject to status”
I take refuge in poetry
Whether written by me the fool
Or them! ... the old sages.

I never met the Mediterranean neither
His bride’s land nor their aquiline nose
I saw them as shifting images
Like a pair of oily eels.

They came with the waves tumbling-
Forward from few days journey
There was no wave of anger, only an
Insecure spring of a shell-less snail.

I cannot disremember the salinity,
The stretched little boy on its shores,
Floating pieces of lost hope
And the airless nights that followed.

Dear Mediterranean, there are
Millions out there, distant kin
I don’t want those dead on rectangular-
Cement slabs, bring them alive!