Friday, December 30, 2011

Bear this silently

We need not articulate ourselves
and hope to be understood perfectly
because one should not let one's self
yearn for such an impossibility.

It's not so much the notion of sharing
our souls as it is selling them
when we speak of our inner realms,
so nurture this silence, this mooring.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Little Tyrant

That conspiratorial look in your eyes as you smirk
it's as if the world tells you its secrets exclusively.
Being selective fuels your personality
your secrecy the shimmering shroud we yearn for.

But your antics fool me no more.
You are but a tyrant
who has set fire to himself;
self-destructive & attention-seeking.

Monday, December 26, 2011

A man, estranged.

Cigarette after cigarette
discarded on the floor,
His left knee jigging
and the right, even more.

Rivulets of smoke escaped his lips
his eyes cast far away
breathing his life away
he lets his suffering sleeps.

It has been years since he last
greeted his parents, seen his home
and now his life amassed
a wealth meaningless alone.

A counter melody of melancholy
whose beat he knows too well.
A brand of sadness that never changes
is that of a man, estranged.

Note: Because you can plainly see it in his desolate eyes. The unkempt state of his heart. Poor man.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011


A million stops ago,
I would've told you everything
But a pause later,
I'd just say 'It's nothing'.

Like the movement of stars,
what interstellar changes that occurs
Is overlooked, by distance, overtook;
This is you looking at me through my eyes.

It is not so much choice as it is fate
that I should tire of keeping up with you.
All that occurs is but circumstance,
a string of events juxtaposed with 'chance'.

I'm letting myself trail into an infinite ellipsis
You can stop me but you won't.
I understand that you simply don't
understand this. Not in the least.

This silence is not circumstantial,
It is pure and existential.
It is slow but this is full-stop;
This is me looking at me through your eyes - I don't exist.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Ramparts of You

Steadily I'm letting the shape
of your words blend into the background
into the noise of this world & its people
so that to me, you'll appear indistinguishable.

Your ideas, like a flowering iris
will no longer hold beauty.
Entranced no more by your sui generis,
I am surrendering you.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Where I don't belong

Sweet prince, where art thou? 
Where art thou shining armour and trusty steed? 
Slay this draconian evil that feasts on my soul
Be an angel & raise me from perdition.

I am no Ophelia, the great lily
but a shade that slinked into Arcady.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

This Dark Age

Woe betide my ambition. Woe betide my generation. Woe betide this confession.
I am the vestigial tail at the end of Man's backbone, ugly and useless, a mutilation.
My heart is hung out in the torrential monsoon, with hopes that rain will cleanse it,
unroot the seed of dreams in it and drown the will that burns it.

I am of a mind that now is the second coming of the Dark ages,
that the modern age is but an amalgamation of slavery.
Society is the enslaved collective that strives for superfluousness.
An excess of wealth, beauty and mortality.

This now is an age of restlessness. Peace and contentment is for the weak,
happiness is transitory and The plague is melancholy.
Nothing lasts in this great Nile of annihilation.
Losing our independence, one childish dream at a time.

Woe betide my vision. Woe betide my soul's eye that does not see.
I am the calyx of destruction, supporting this flower of evil that seduces itself,
an autogenous sin that maligns my diseased sincerity.
My volition is a wayfarer of the sea, once resolved, as utile as driftwoods.

This is the shores of my mind. What washes upon it do not stay.
Ever flickering in this misbegotten age, waiting to manifest
my asphyxiated delusions in a triumphant display,
bitterly, I give flight to my dismay.


Written in a dark mood, hence an embellished mind sometime last week.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Lightness of being

I walk through the plains of my time and see a friend in the horizon.
His figure, countenance, familiar - unchanging as the Sun.
I approach him to say a greeting but a gust of wind cut me short.
Whistling as it flew past, once the air is still, my friend is no more.
He's caught the winds of change yet I, am still the same.

Buds of sorrow bloom in my chest, its deathly pollen fill my lungs.
Along with it roots of jealousy trace the veins of my heart.
I walk away heavily. A forest of gloom is festering within me.
O Faith! I haven't love you enough. I haven't been receptive.
All this time, I have been cold and pensive. 

I ponder but I am thoughtless. This fluff in my head makes me a sloth.
I look at my friend and his purity whips my consciousness,
this bluff I'm living , I'm really simply drowning.
Folly. All this is folly. If I face the way where lies the House of God
and wait for sunlight, maybe change will dawn on me and I'll float.
And finally you're starting to bore me. This is good.

Monday, November 28, 2011


Wild grass line the twin pools
so shallow the water, it seems silly
that the depths of the Soul reflects in them.
A blinking mouth that spews your darkest secrets.

Fluorescent sewage floats near the surface
blue, green, hazel and brown; A beautiful mirage.
The purest is the blackness of still water.
Sincerity, wickedness, nothing is visible for deduction.

When another glimpse their countenance reflected,
the proximity alone suggests intimacy.
Even distant stars nestle in these pools;
where Love and the Universe swim together.

Instruments for perception, allowing 
concrete basis for this mad reality.
When looking into a mirror
who is it that you see?

Friday, November 25, 2011


I am not silent because there is gold
in my mouth. In my mouth there is
my heart. If I speak, it will fall out
with it, the words in my veins.

It is questionable to write in
a language you don't speak in,
but don't stop reading because
soon I'll start bleeding and you'll hear me.

Speak I will not, til my voice is of age.
Til my tongue speaks the language
of my mind and be able to show you
the atoms in this world of mine.

Time is relative.
Forever isn't always Never.
The day will come when my unspeakables
will pour out of me like holy parables.

The Maverick

Wooden floors, solid wood if I can afford it. In the meanwhile, faux wood flooring will do. Mahogany shelves lining the off-white walls, ivory perhaps. A couple of paintings on the wall (of dila's), behind the counter? (also wooden). A record player hooked to a decent sound system for shimmery hot afternoons. A coffee machine (though I don't drink coffee). A long wooden table facing a raised platform, a mini stage for readings/recitals/lectures etc. A projector (for playing films / presentations). A backroom to be converted into a surau (for easy access).


Literary behemoths. 
The Holy Qur'an & other Islamic books (for this life is a blessing from Him).

A doormat that says, 'Step lightly'.

A smaller sign near the door that says The Maverick with a quote ''Enter, tis light in here." underneath...maybe.

I will chew on this (more) later.

But I know that such heights will only bring me down.
Life is temporary, the hereafter is not.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Age of anarchy

Retarded in many sense
the fate of my country lies in the hands
of weak hearted ignorami such as I.
We do not seek justice.
Not for the impoverished cretins
not for the blushing babes,
not even for our sloth selves.

Our heads filled with fluff
brought by the wave of western hysteria
even their existential fears of existence,
the young drink without shame.
I am afraid I am the same.
The Great Depression of my generation is of a different kind
indifference is the bomb that hollows lands.

Patriotisme is but flimsy flags
paraded upon lawns and vehicles
whilst not a shred of the cloth in their hearts.
Patriotisme is dead.
History is a dusty archive
forgotten even when memorized.
This is the age of witlessness, of invisible anarchy.

The papers do not speak for the people,
it speaks to them.
The people do not have a voice
nor do they seek to speak.
27 million people with nothing to say
27 million people of no vision
27 million people of a tranquilized nation.

Nobody wishes to labour for love
to save the future that is sublimating.
They much rather bleed into the mouths of foreign
capitalists whom they serve their own souls.
We're livestocks bred for parasites.
Not heeding the cry for a revolution,
my generation is suicidal.


My mind is feeble.
I engorge myself with visions of you
and your weltanschauung,
so exquisite it tugs the arteries of my heart
and threaten to rip my valves,
this heat in my blood is my passion
to be worldly and dispassionate like you.

I claw at your stratosphere,
so I may breathe the air you breathe
but my lungs aren't made for it.
The sad howling of the wind you sometimes hear
that is my longing for you.
If I could just stand before you and not cower
perhaps I'll discover the key to my destiny.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


I am metal dust to her bipolarity.
My mind annihilated,
I obey and dance to her tune,
much like a pacemaker sets the beats of a heart
she is my metronome within.

My normally calm and measured nature
reduced to neurotic compulsiveness as I abide
to her sly dictations. When not present (especially)
she rules me entirely.
I am captive to this pitiful idolatry.

I confess, I have tried frequently,
desperately to purge myself. I seek redemption
with a passion yet ultimately my soul rebels.
Tis true. She is the fire in me.
My fey, vicious Muse.

If I could wipe from my memory
anything I choose, it would be you.
But I realize,
along with you
I myself will dematerialize.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

The Howlers

Childhood was confusing.
Laughter echoed in long stretches of silence
and smiles lasted as faint after-images.
Love was present but felt like an apparition.

They were trained not to love
so instead, they learn to howl.
An awuuuuu for a night of deafening terrors
and an awuuuwu for a night of deadly tears.

Broken goods in lovely packages,
the sadness within glittered in their eyes
laced their gestures and gazes.
People can see this lonesome beauty.

Even though they remember the exact words
that were flung through the house
could taste still their poison,
they knew better than to keep listening.

The howlers grow up wild.
The love they never felt as a child
became a fire that consumes sanity
but regardless, creates beauty.

The howlers may claim invincibility
when they are the epitome of fragility.
Their past in their bones
they let the flesh ripen.

When you see a howler, you'll know they're howlers.
The song in their movements,
the intricate patterns of their scarred countenance
though masked, always apparent.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011


The boy wonders what it takes to be visionary
to have wings and be able to fly
so you can leave this world and its people
to live in a heaven of sorts
where you can create and love reciprocates.

But he doe not know that he is capable.
The bronze buttons on his blazers are symbols
of both luxury and oppression.
Impoverished of realities he is caged in softness
and blinding supervision, which he mistook for providence.

A dear young boy,
his fanciful chatter is but white noise
born from an oblique mind, oblivious, impervious.
He watches the old man pandering his charm
and fixates on the gold watch, cold to the touch.

His curiosity seeks ultimate beauty,
it blossoms in his chest and makes his breath sweet.
Nonetheless the flagrancy inflicted upon him
is a heritage that shall not crumble easily.
If his flower is not to wither, he must grow, a maverick.

Friday, November 11, 2011


Empty laughter bedeck the night sky
solitarily I faced her
ensconed in velvety confusion,
me, the moon, we're one and the same.

I did not perceive sorrow from her
nor loneliness. I fixated on her beauty
her ever shining, scarred countenance.
Such loveliness needs only admiration.

The moon and I, we orbit our worlds
we circumference life in a perfect unbroken circle.
We bask in darkness
and let light shine through our beings.

Gravity, why do you hold us back?
The universe is infinite, so is our love.
To fall like meteors and burn
let us be incandescent.

In the company of familiar strangers
I dance this private waltz
to music only she and I could hear,
the moon and I, we glide through our fears.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011


When the world come crashing upon you
you expect it to be loud in a morbidly epic sort of way
but to the contrary, when it really does crush you
it is silent.

I confess, I've spent many a flight
of fancy imagining what my personal apocalypse would be like.
I pictured time to warp into slow-motion
but above all I hoped I would be standing on top of the debris.

None of that played out.
When the last knot that ties your life together is undone
you can only watch and relish the numbness that paralyzes even horror.
You rationalize in your mind and when it doesn't compute, more silence.

I made my way through the hallways and down the stairs quickly
I could hear my heartbeat exploding in my ears
but most of all I wanted to stare at the sky in private
and hope rain would fall.

I looked for a tree in the park, one with enough girth to hide me
and sat under it where dead twigs, bark and leaves littered.
I stared at the green grass and the great clouds sailing above me
and wished that this beauty I'm looking at is all that mattered.

I wanted, needed time to stop. Instead
time went by faster than ever.
I knew I wouldn't be able to pick myself up
fast enough to catch up.

Because life's not like that.

The wind blew harshly, ceaselessly, coldly.
It helped to freeze my fears and dry my tears.
When you finally lose it all, you're only inconsolable for a while
then, a shroud of stillness comes to match the silence.

I cried for an hour under the tree,
until I'm sure the weather's trying to kill me.
Crows flew across the sky. I wondered if they were carrion birds
looking for something dead, like me.

I didn't want to go back home and I had but a few dollars in my wallet
not enough for a motel or even a bar of chocolate.
So I went back to my apartment, where waiting are my friends.
I stood a long while in the landing, making up stories for lying.

Underneath the tree, I was more alone than I've ever been,
more unhinged than I ever imagined.
God is wise. He made us so we would never die
of heartbreak but for me, it might be too late.


Knowing your place in the world is half the battle
the other half is to embrace it.
The eternal question of one's raison d'etre
preoccupy the minds of the restless.

A man in searching, travels
A contended one occasionally ponders it
A happy man stays at home
but a lost one, he is a prisoner.

Monday, October 24, 2011


I used to think you and I share an understanding
of what it means to be dazzled by light
as seen from the depths of an abyss.
Reaching out to the world above.

When the dark seeps into my marrows
I reassure myself that you feel it too.
When my nights seem endless
I believed that you too were sleepless.

Time unraveled the cocoon I've spun
over my eyes and now I see they're all lies.
Don't fret I do not blame you
I realize now you were never my consort.

For awhile, the confusion caused me turmoil
and I was spiteful and inconsolable.
Now I see clearly, truly,
you're not understanding, merely condescending.


I now know how poisonous heartbreak is
it cripples your mind and weakens you.
Your thoughts swirl with the elusive pain
giving the illusion that nothing is wrong
when everything is.

Taking the edge off by drowning yourself
in whatever that numbs your senses or otherwise
set fire to it entirely. As long as you don't feel
that acute awareness of hurting. You're so withdrawn,
each heartbeat explodes in your ears.

I have never known you to be cruel but you actually are,
just not intentionally, which makes you infinitely more so.
I don't think you realize that  each time I come to you
I give it all up. Each time, in complete surrender
I let you caress my crystal heart.

In fear that one of its many cracks growing
of it completely shattering, I bare you my flawed existence.
I tremble when you sigh. Your dissapointment
suffocates me. I silence my cries when you turn away
and pretend to leave me. It kills me.

I stand before you today to ask for one last favour,
that you never say my name again. Don't even whisper it.
Not in your dreams, not even in the muted privacy
of your solitary thoughts because each time that you do,
it echoes through the universe and finds me.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

My silence.

Time and again I regret words I've spoken
they hung in the air, alone and bare.
In my head I play constant revisions
of things I wish I've said differently
but more importantly, more honestly.

Most of the time, meanings are left behind
for my half-utterances are half-truths.
I do not mean to side-step when questioned,
just an impulse born of this fragility I'm sanctioned.
My world is small, what intrudes stays for good.

If I do not say much and it hurts you
do realize that my silence is my strength.
What little I have shared with you
if it's not enough or worse, offends you
I apologize but realize my silence is just a disguise.

In my dreams I show you a great painting
that bare to you all that I want to say.
You run your hands over them where lay
all my truths, all my feelings.
Before it we stood and embrace in silence.

Saturday, October 15, 2011


I stumbled upon Rimbaud
and his lunacy entranced me.
But then I discovered blasphemy
and it disgusts me.

But Rimbaud, upon your last hour
you  repeatedly whisper 'Allahu karim'!
'God is generous'.
Did you finally see?

Your renouncing poetry and your
was the travelling in search of Truth?
Of you, too much is mystery.

But you taught the children the Qur'an
and studied your father's translation.
Am I naive?
For wanting to believe that you too, believe?

Regardless, the elaborate affairs we live
rests in the blessings of The One.
What flowers we pluck in this life
its pollen, this poem everything comes from Him.

The Poet II

What woes a poet bear is his and his alone.
No other in his world ever breaches his trust
that he may put words from his soul to the air
where they sublimate.

Trysts with muses may occur but the poet will withdraw
when the inevitable solitariness descends.
If it is by accident that this universe is lonely
then it is by nature that the poet sees beauty.

He calls Beauty by names in secret languages
and feeds her his lifeblood.
What is borne then into their private atmosphere
is lost to all spare them.

A wordsmith spits fire. A true poet burns, illuminates his generation
guiding them with voices guiding him, sung throughout his being.
Half-utterances dies on his lips and thwarts him
yet on paper he is a paragon.

Friday, October 14, 2011

Any time now.

Don't insult me with wild accusations
there is little that I care about in this world.
Any less than now would fare me badly.
Any time now.
I won't be waiting
But it's any time now.

If it strikes your fancy, then exclude me.
Just wholly, leave me be.
I'm but bones of a long dead long forgotten idea.
A vague memory not worth the effort of pondering.
So do forget.
But it's any time now.

I will fade slowly but absolutely.
Not a faint image of me will flit through anymore.
I won't haunt you like faint music heard at a distance
because it's clear to me that I'm not capable of such significance.
Not then, not now, not ever.
So it's any time now.

Giant wings will fly me away
and wipe me away
from the shores that is your memory
long before you could even think
of throwing me away.
Because it's any time now.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Cry to Death.

Stinging your eyes
tears brings you bodily pain
giving leverage to the cuts
bruises or scars you merely feel.
A mechanism that purges you
and drowns you.
It affirms, justifies your right to wallow in hurt.
Often you wonder if it heals
or merely aggravates your grief, rage.

If one looks closely, not with eyes, with humanity
each drop bears an image of the poison
or weapon that inflicted the victim.
Each drop bears life of its own
captured words, actions, expressions. 
A parade of tirades.

But tears, I hate you.
Life does not wait and you stall me.
Wretched tears, you trap me.
You pry me of stately grace
submit me to disgrace.
Indolently sliding, sparkly tears
you bare me my fears.
If all my life is flowed into you
and this lifelessness escalates,
tell me, what of me will be left?

Kiss back.

Come board this ship
I am leaving this land of the living.
Join my expedition
we'll race to realms even light touches not.

Have courage, lose your minds
fly like Icarus.
Stars brighter than our Sun awaits us.
Burn in sweetness and be at peace.

Orion strikes fear in the hearts of sailors
yet we long for him.
In this quest for martyrdom
we will find freedom.

When your dreams materialize
and kisses you.
You kiss back.
Eternity can wait.

My muse II

Quick to flare
she's the rage in a vicious glare.
Every move so graceful that
a haloed after-image shadows them.

Garlands of dandelions
matches her golden irises.
Sun-child, fey-like, wild
her laughter carries like pollen in the Spring.

The curve of her shoulder
infinitely lovely.
The arch of her foot
the ground kisses tenderly.

To speak to her of life
is to drink golden absinthe.
A drop sears the lips
a gulp burns the heart.

I, you entrance with
dances that mimick fires
of a great burning tree
whose wisdom go up in ashes.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011


She ran her fingers through my hair
caressing a cheek, tickling my nose.
It is high up here.
It is lonely up here.
Just me and the breeze.

Eyes closed yet the Sun beckons still
her warmth burns through, fluorescing. 
Such an alluring red.
In a moment, the pavement
too will be red.

I inhale their expectations
and exhale disappointments.
I inhale my fantasies
and exhale their realities.
This life is small, it is fleeting.
This jar is small, I'm suffocating.

Nothing echoes in my heart
for it is not empty
what's left of it holds no song.
No reason echoes in my mind
for it's left me.
Any such ties I have torn.

Though I stood still...
the skies my fancies flew in
the plains my ego rests in
my vague universe 
my refuge
my love;
She leapt into oblivion.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Dear Serenity,

Though a raindrop comes from a storm
once fallen, it sits still on a window sill.
Such noblesse is present in you and me
                 it is human dignity.
Violent frothings from whence it came The Sea
a droplet's woe is commonplace
                 With that, comes Humility.

When pondering nature,
one in reality ponders one's self.
Tranquility is not to be sought,
one need only embrace it.

Let your senses roam
let your horizons expand
let stillness drown your extremities
This quiet familiarity from within
when nary a whisper disturbs you
                 lovingly serene.


I like how Rilke describes the 'vastness' of Solitude. I find it soothing.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

New York only a bus-ride-away

I hold you in such esteem that in the few dreams that I've had had of you coming home, I greet you with a smile and kiss your hand.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011


I refuse to put this feeling into a poem because I will then have failed yet again to save myself from this crippling, crippling, crippling-


I divulge this though:
                                             Time and again with Sun-like gravity you ensnare me.

I can afford this one single sentence.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Spring break

(despite the lousy weather) was like sunshine in winter, a gentle morning breeze, caramel popcorn at the movies, a lazy saturday morning, a hug from your kid brother.

All things nice that leave you smiling with fond feelings.

Thursday, September 15, 2011


The truth remains that I think of you
too often than I wish to admit.
This involuntary infatuation
which I'd rather you not envision.
I would fare so much better
if to me you don't always matter.

I am collateral damage in the vicissitudes
of your admirers, which you have in multitudes.
I never intended be quite so weak
believe me, this emotional paralysis is torture.
This infallible seduction I suffer
is my own folly.

Unconsciously, thoughts of you pervade
even my quietest reveries.
Unintentionally, imaginary dialouges with you
overtake me in my moments of inattention.
What madness such sweetness
brings me, only the lovesick could perceive.

I am not in love with you
or am I in love with the idea of you.
This incomprehensible fixation I have for you
is in all probability a by-product
of sheer lonely delirium.
Loving you would have been much easier.

I end this with an anecdote:
In my dreams you come to me as a Rose.
Blood red, thorned and intoxicating.
I grasp you and I cut myself
I inhale your poison and lose myself
Yet I do not desist for I fear nothingness.

Friday, September 9, 2011


This impossible yearning to spill
this overwhelming desire to tell
what secrets I bear
all of them
all of me
all for you.

When we talk, all that I speak
is but a grain of the truth, which I hide.
All the while what turmoil you suffer me
they sublimate into non-existence.
For the glimmerings in my eyes
are fires you set within me.

I can never be frank, not
when you detest the idea of us sharing
ourselves. What thoughts you divulge to me
are those you feel unworthy of secrecy.
Obsessed with solitariness only as you can be.

You think me transparent
and as long as this thin veil
holds itself between us,
I can keep staging this private play.
All the better for you,
all the safer for me.


Note: I'm good at this. I'm good at being a suffering fuck. 
This self-concocted madness I posion myself with day in day out.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Towards Heaven

It is perhaps an acknowledgement to Heaven
that beauty on this earth is fleeting.
No matter how lovely anything is,
including Love itself
it does not last.

A realm of utmost perfection
where Beauty is absolute truth,
and eternal.
Transcending existence itself,
a creation unparalleled.

My delirious visions of romanticism
is but sediments of lust
precipitated from errors,
thought as human nature.
When really, all I need is fortitude.

Towards Heaven
is what I should aim for.
Towards Heaven
is what I should die for.


Uninspired by what I read
I succumb to route-learning.
The ultimate sin
in the questing for knowledge.

I adhere to the rules
and strive for modesty.
Conforming with the greatest reluctance
I am mediocre.

These feelings of unworth
I dampen with flights of fancy.
Dreaming up worlds with foreign realities
I let my vision blur.

This gloomy, fitful existence
it makes one hunger for an end.


Soft yet strong
like the beats of a bird's wings
when your presence touches me
I find it difficult to stay lucid.

You stir chaos in my mind.

Unawares of your effect on me,
my iron-wrought, bloodied exterior
which I curtain with calm demeanour;
To you, I am but a garden with gates open.

You sow seeds of trust in me.

But don't worry.
Despite it all, I won't say to you
that I need you or want you.
I believe that loveliness can only be fleeting.

With you, I wager my reason
my faculties, everything.

Monday, September 5, 2011

My muse

If there's anything useful I learn from
being acquainted with you
is that in complexity therein
lies absolute beauty.
And that in cruelty there is always;
Love misled
Loyalty betrayed
Promises thwarted.

Nightly tears, daily nightmares
you're my beautiful monster.
The fuel that burns me
thoroughly, for eternity.
I am skewed and debased
in my perception of your true self.
For in my aberrant loyalty to you
lies infinite cruelty.
Truly, I don't care for your humanity
merely your beauty, which I magnify.

For this, I am sorry.
Like all wicked creatures of this world
I scavenge for that which I aim my lust;
Your mind
Your visions
Your past
all I savour, though
I feign anxiety at your expense.

Dear muse,
within all these verses
laced in every single word
is an image of you.
Mutilated by me
so I may breathe my fantasy.
Almost all that I write, if not all
I flaunt your very vulnerability,
my own monstrosity.


Note: Sometimes I feel the need to debase my naivety in...I'm not sure what word to use, perceiving?...perceiving you because my dignity, self-worth hangs by it. My way of reassuring myself that there's nothing in the slightest bit...wrong with my Muse, which incidentally is what you are to me. 
There, I said it.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Highs & Lows

My mood can be flippant at times
drying all my laughter
freezing all my smiles
but most of all
it hollows me, completely and utterly.

I don't mind getting on a high
but all highs end with lows.
When the lows dip too low
the devastation seems irreversible
lasting moments that feels like eternities.

I have to put down my defences
and throw away my reservations
just to stay intact.
For a while, detached
from detachment.

When I set these fires in my mind
I burn my heart and lit my soul.
Afterwards, the ashes fall and settle.
For once I wish the wind would sweep me up
suspend me in lightness, happiness.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011


I'll do almost anything for you
even if you do nothing for me.
Just a little acknowledgement from you
means the world to me.
What I feel for you is, Love
unlike that between friends, or even lovers.
For I deem you my almost-soulmate
My cruel yet witty confidant.

Whenever I think of death
I'll think of you. Of writing;
poems, letters. Of painting;
flowers, the Moon, the Sky
all addressed to only two, of which one is you.
My affection for you is quite limitless,
the intimacy I feel for you is a secret
I doubt you'll ever comprehend.

This almost-Love fondness I have for you
is very real to me.
As long as it stays hidden,
untainted by views of our conformist society
but most of all from you whom I Love, almost;
my warped, haloed vision of you (my Muse)
will stay folded in the crook between my soul & sanity.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Big M

My life is grotesque and dreadry
like a circus too shabby to make money
It is one big malaise.
Loathing people in proximity
I am tired, twisted and half-crazed.

Their presence, remarks, ignorance,
all vaulting my strained civility.
Badgering me with endless axioms
having me explain such trivialities
Why am I serving such penance?

Leave me be
oh, just leave me be.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Love letters

I'll write you one everyday because see, sometimes I do understand the need to be loved. People who keep to themselves quite a bit value contact (with the right people) a lot more than the average person.

It's just that, I don't get to.

You know, write letters.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Rainbow in my window

Always. After it rains, I see a rainbow in my window.

The musky scent of rain cling to you
like cold weather does to bones,
distinct and unforgiving.
Silent yet resilient, just like rain
you water sadness with hope
and put out flames of shame.

Alone in the sky, palely loitering.
Warm to the eyes yet ever so distant
you're my solemn rainbow. My secret.
I can see your true colours
but only when you wish me to.
I'm asking you now; Linger here forever.

Friday, July 29, 2011


I know of a place where you and I
will be happier.
A place where no lingering after-images
of yesteryears will haunt us.
A place where we could belong
but not together.

We will find company of each other’s sorts.
People who would understand your visions
and love my art.
Our lonely quest for solitude will end
Our afflicted selves will mend.

I know of a place where you and I
will be sincere.
A place where no affections are affectations
for the unfortunates who reach for us.
A place where we could love everyone
but not each other.

We will find solace for our souls.
Lovers who would ease your boredom
and soothe my woes.
Our detached sensitivities pacified
Our frustrations nullified.

All that we seek we will find
in this place of mine.

But I would rather have you with me.
Such estrangement will kill me eventually
 for I'll be happy yet empty.
This is how lovely I find you
how badly I'll miss you.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Dear me,

Why can't you just forget? Why can't you simply be satisfied with what you're doing right now? Do you really believe you would be happier otherwise? Why do you feel thwarted? As if the choice you made weren't entirely yours?

It is YOUR own fault after all. Nobody else's. You were given a chance. As slight and condescending a chance it may be but it was there. You cowered and gave in. If you truly had wanted what you thought you wanted you would've gone through with it. No matter the consequences.

I am at a loss. I can't be happy like this. To be happy I need to want to be happy. I need to be content. This is a lost cause.

Money. If we've had had the money all this won't be a problem.

But what of fate? and Destiny? All is in His palms. All is His doing. All is the best for you. All is good for you.

Oh, insolence. Oh, ingratitude. Leave me be. Let me be at peace!

And you still think all this is but a detour. A trial. A period for growth and maturity. A test. So you may be more patient.

All will fade. All will fall into atrophy. Your vague 'zeal' is but a mirage of youth. Not even a good youth I would say.

Carelessness. Fucking carelessness.

This is apathy.

This is the pit.

This is atrophy.

Just keep it together.

Yours sincerely,

Monday, July 18, 2011


'When I don't have you
I have nobody.'
This sadly universal circumstance
haunting thousands
of lonely people in this world.
They sit in the dark at 3a.m.
in beds, streets, by windows
staring at nothing all the while
having visions of warmth, loves,
or both.
Their far-away eyes
reflecting their far-away lives.

Like lone wolves they're
hungered and slightly deranged.
A stillness. A peace and quiet
that linger about their rounded shoulders,
hung heads, downcast sleepless eyes.
But they weren't peaceful at all.
Memory of senses like a caress of the cheek,
a whiff of cologne, an unmet passing glance,
or whisperings of dying laughter;
clawed at them.
Relentless and unforgiving.
So they sat unmoving.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

The Poet.

Bereaved by whatever tragic happenings
that plagues his waking and dead hours
the poet clings to what he's burned in his heart
be it ancient or recent, always
it is Love.

What he harbours in his sighs
he fashions prose and rhyme
to ease his suffering.
What poison that dulls his heart
he savours the sweetness.

The poet cherishes his own weakness
thinking his fragility beautiful
not realizing his foolishness is but
a plaything; breakable. 
Most of all, replaceable.

Bearing welts on his soul
like a gladiator his battle scars,
the poet is never aware.
He has no sword, or spear
he is not in a war. Only a victim of slavery.

The poet think he breathes flowers
cries diamonds and sings like angels
when really all he does is bleed.
All the worse, all the better for him
for agony and misery are his mistresses.

Poor poet
Silly poet
Sad poet
You are a shell of a man. 
Within you lies Heaven for you're empty and ungraspable.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Another kind of Love

Because the allure lies in its innocence. In all its fleeting mischief. A sort of purity that can only be preserved through chastity. Paper thin, the line that allows and forbids, that it is almost false.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Anti-social II

Absence of the ability to willingly, contentedly, mingle with people in general. An ineptitude that causes consternation. Failure to adapt to society.

Sunday, July 3, 2011


The need to evade encounters, conversations. Even mere eye-contact. Discomfort verging on mild fear. An almost anxiety I would rather avoid. Avoidance of people.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011