mind commits a crime:
renders the body unsafe;
the soul bares witness.

'writing's like mass -
God gets mad if you don't show up.'

- earnest hemingway

dull and lustless,
i walk the streets -
looking at the trees -
the sweet shops
the library
the branded cabs
the grass fields  
the trickling pipes  
the street performers
the brown leaves
the eagle’s flight
the day
the ‘real’ men
the ‘real’ women
the idea of them
the average joes  
the instagram ******  
the mindless jocks
the humbler saints
the rich folks
the poor lepers
the clay pots
the rain
my life;  
all devoid of charm.

what’s left to do,
but seek love?

fear is an illusion that feels more real than life itself, at times. scores of artists have succumbed to the despair brought upon by the fear of overexposing themselves. you know them - the writers who won’t write - the painters who won’t paint - and the sculptors who won’t get their hands *****. maybe you’ve even met one or two. or know someone close to you who might be of a certain poignant disposition that’s impossible to ignore. if not, perhaps it’s time to have a closer look at the mirror.

it’s true that those who dare to traverse the forest of the unknown must encounter the beasts that lurk in the darkness. some are benign. some are malevolent. at first, you’re terrified of them all. but as you go farther and deeper into the forest, you soon realize that they’ve become some of your dearest friends, despite all the wounds you’ve inflicted upon each other during your skirmishes. you learn to tame them, feed them, and eventually, cage them. yet after all this, the question, or rather, the fear remains - can you ever bring them out into the real world? and more importantly, what would they do to your mind if you do?

a scary thought for many artists, indeed.

but perhaps these ‘beasts’ may not be as bloodthirsty for our spirits as we might think. perhaps, it’s about how we personify them in our minds. there’s a beautiful poem by charles bukowski called ‘bluebird’ that speaks exactly of this fear, and perhaps even offers an antidote. it immortalises the little bird in the writer’s heart, a rather benign beast, that sings every now and then, unafraid, and in spite of what its captor might think, or feel, or do. it reminds us that it’s okay to let the bird sing every now and then - because it will - and not let it die so finally. it implores us to not sacrifice it at the altar of perfection, but rather be gentle with its humble feathers.  

something i believe we could all do with our own little bluebirds.

a nervous 𝘵𝘴𝘬 of the lips
a little drop of sweat bulging at the neck
an eyelid flickering way too much
a mind that won’t change
a pillow that reeks of salt
a photograph of a distant memory
a fly buzzing around the plasma tube light
a buzz that won’t go away

a switch that won’t turn off
a stain that won’t dust off
a walk that’s unusual for the age
a kid who refuses to play

it’s the little things that give you away

a glass of bourbon
unspent napkins on the side
the cheque is written

What do I do with this blank space
I always have something to say
But today that's not the case

What do I do with empty page
Maybe I can use it to get out of this cage
Maybe I can use it to escape this rage

What shall I do with this unwritten story
Maybe I can write words that will help them speak of my glory
Maybe my words will go down in  herstory

What do I do with this bare canvas
Maybe it can bring joy and stop me from being anxious
And maybe it will get rid of all this worldly madness

What do I do on this earth that's not my home
Acquire a defiant syndrome
Or stay hidden under a dome
Forever alone?

The day of my freedom, clearly unknown

before the world swallows you whole,
leaving you barely able to exhale all that continues to weigh you down,
or inhale all that is destined to cast away your inner conflictions.

just...
breathe