True self

Your longings

attached to a thespian smile

captivates a wandering soul

tho’ it’ll take you a while longer

to remember how to breath again.

these nimble feeling in your bowels

is rumbling, swelling up, bursting out

your spirit is an unrestrained beast

recycling the dreams you’ll dream again

like a sillouette in the dead of the night

you slip into a formless, void space

thoughts dance up your crooked spine

nothing that doesn’t want to can be obviated

Sometimes peace screams through silence

sometimes silence is the peace

truth lays beyond the borders

of this consciousness and an astral plane

Then comes a glimpse of epiphany

We are but spirits in human drag

Nothing we see is real as it seems.

We fight everyday

to find diamond reflecting in darkness

Within self

Outside self

But in reality

There exist  truth within  truth

Emerald city

Mirror mirror,

What if I was a stranger in Emerald city, ten white horses galloping in front of me, leading the way to the King’s quadrangle, where I bow to her royal highness. I’d serenade her and spill some tea….perhaps even all of it.

It would be nice to live and let loose, not a strand of my hair would tangle and shed, and even if it does, who cares? Drink baileys for breakfast, two glasses of wine before lunch time. All the while smizing for the royal painter to capture my marvellous essence.

Nothing would cease and end. There would always be transfiguration, so my light would be bright enough to generate into the soft glow of the moon in this place where my lady-likeness sprouts

If only time would stand still, even for a minute or five to let me goof around in a infinite courtyard. Wouldn’t life be all the merrier, without ogles of responsibilities breaking down the walls to drag me away.

But a little bit of me will remain regardless in Emerald city, to kiss the King’s temple and frolic in the banquet halls. To cradle the town folks dreams with my severely lacking etiquettes.

In the still night, the owl’s hoot with echo a lullaby. And if the wind is willing, It would circulate warm safari sand to every doorstep and check in with every heart beat until I can find my way back home to them.

photo cred: Marina Girgis on instagram

The language

Puff it once.

Let the smoke dance on the skin until you sucks it back like vacuum. And your eyes overflow with tears like a breaking dam. Pain is a painting of haunted memories you treasure. But if you blood turns black, you’ll risk playing Russian roulette with demons.

Living in a society with borders is like dancing at the top on an active volcano, all the while, expecting it not to erupt. Life is dangerous, just listen to the broken whispers at the end of every delayed heartbeat. You’ll never know if you’re tiptoeing on borrowed time.

After many sacrilegious prayers and resounding amens, most people never find their truth, probably because they’re yet to tell the the truth to themselves. Schade

A flame has no shadow, just like the blurred line between existency and spirituality. You may stand next to it, observing, imitating, fusing with it until you understand the cast that scatters your soul.

Eggshell, bland and typical, your charm is able to discern. Your palms are empty but you conjure up extra smoke and mirrors till your bones start to grit and quake. If you’re lucky, someone calls out with you behind their own shadowy mess.

There is a language I write, from an unorthodox and extinct book it is. Some say it is the language of the dead, others call it the language with no name. Everything I write about you, is what I see looking in the mirror, but the reflection I admire is in the way of my expressive hands.

Simple naive girl

simple naive girl standing at a bay

wind caressing her bronzed-red cheeks

her skin decorated with chilling goosebumps

She’ll be there much longer

She never learnt her ABC’s

she cut her locs and looks mad shabby

talk is cheap, that’s everything she’s not

One look and her face melts into your mind

When a marigold of beauty meets the devil

all forts gives way to the sandstorm of heckle

She takes a terse step forward and 10 strides back

look she’s already pregnant with disappointment

She grew into a Robotic shell

mechanical in every way, like a caged dove

She escaped her iron cast

when she reprogrammed herself to feel

Overdosing from undeserved trust and faulty loyalty

when the full moon waxes and wanes

she’ll patch her haunted soul together again

but simple naive girl just never learns

She gives herself up love

even if it’s an agonising wrench through her spine

she figured, if seeing is believing

she couldn’t master life with hardly feeling.


He just doesn’t know how

to turn a blind eye

to the needy


braves through

the scourging sun

to rain down favour

from the universal angel of love





Tattooed to the back of his hand

is a sketch of the world.

He knits together

the tapestry of lost hope.

At daybreak

his blood

washes the street 

His is the tabernacle

of ceremonial thanksgivings




For the torture that life foretells

He is well equipped

An unrepentant saint

neither lost



his heart weeps daily

for the complacent distortion of universe

An unfortunate dystopic reality




To the citizens of mankind

he greets with shalom

The lord’s prayer


his bread

there is no greed

no careless trickery

To all those willing to listen

he invites into oneness in his house





The legend of the moon,the lights of the sky

heralds from this Mathyr’s tale

Today he was stripped


he let out a wail

that shakes beneath the earth.

He is crowned the lord of all lords

and showers his mercy even more radiantly 



Silent eyes

I was standing at the front of my mat with my feet rooted to the earth, much like a woman with silent eyes waiting for hours at a bus stop.

Prudently listening and smiling, like her cares had been washed away with dunes on midnight’s wave and she didn’t have anywhere to be. Though she receives no visual input, her ear are busy and constantly overwhelmed.

She could hear the school children chattering, snacking, doing what school kids do. The cars swoon past her, like they were racing against the impending mortality of their desires.

Today she met me, and I met her. neither of us could see each other, and it was perfect that way. Her whites of her eyes had turned to the heavens as if she was permanently searching for a starlight. Mine were shut, temporarily.

I sensed her graceful smile and her kind colours that illuminated from her fragile soul.

Her silent eyes saw everything and reflected nothing. Her ears followed the every sparrow’s song, every lingering moment. Every cutthroat Innuendo. She held the implosive secrets of many-a-man that transformed into feelings that could set her ablaze.

She spoke to me like a long-time friend, her successes and anecdotes of her pain. I was moved by her words of wisdom and the passion in her voice. Sometimes she weaved her secrets between the strands of poetry.

Finally, my ears were overwhelmed too so I opened my eyes to greet her face. It was then she told me the most important thing that contained no words, and a smile that stretched from her lips to the edge of her silent eyes.

Delilah’s wish

She waited at the foot of mother’s rocking chair, next to the polka- dot curtains, cuddling her head between the flesh of her palms.

Mother was 122 years old with the smile of a 6 year Mädel. Her silver hair was ankle-long and growing. She reminded Delilah of an orange orchid that blossomed in spring.

Mother always told her that if she wished hard enough, it will come true. Think of it as the source of your soul’s turnover, she said. So every second she held a wish, like a golden goose egg on a Mughal-gem spoon. Her wishes bloomed into ideas that transformed into pictures that broke out of the oasis of her mind.

Everyday she was living her best wishes within herself, disconnected from both bright and shadowy side of the world.

Outside, the ground was a muddy mess of earth, the trees twisted their roots deep into the malleable soil, claiming their territory while providing nurture for the wrmy worms and beetles. The rain had poured for weeks, and even now, there seemed no sign of dryness.

Delilah had stayed in. Albeit her love for the unsynchronised kiss of the soluble element on her coarse skin, seeing mother’s radiance was a far pleasurable experience.

Delilah pulled out her book of colours tucked beneath her pillow and began to scroll like she always did. The moment she sprays her colours is when her cheeks are flushed, her body squirms with joy and her frosty soul melts into a healing orange puddle.

She would colour in her dreams, and then paint herself when she’s awake. Her aesthetic was more-so an extension of herself than a mask

Today she painted freshly baked banana-cupcakes on the stove. Windsor, the tabby cushioned between two flower pots. She painted her mother looking out the curtains watching the rain drip drip with wonder in her eyes. Delilah imagined she was thanking God for the gift of the seasons.

When she was done, she proudly handed her masterpiece to mother. She couldn’t have wished for anything more than the truth her sketches revealed even without tracing a single ink to paper.

Her Connection

Today she saw a bird,

black-feathered, orange-beak it was

and next to it sat another

together on a fence.

She’d never had a best friend

So the pen became her therapist

as well as her mentor

She made the mint pages of a book,

her biggest patrons.

Her favourite blouse leaves a trail

of ox-blood and maroon.

She dazzled in her recent look

with a recycled version of her former drag.

Her shade is a tinted mural

of interrupted dreams she’ll dream again

but her favourite pants is a pair

of unresolved feeling she’s too scared to detach from.

On her face, you’ll notice a dent

the dissembled puzzle pieces of her past lovers.

The pages of her soul are dog-eared and ripped.

The beauty of her heart was lost in transition.

That’s why she likes to smoke tobacco

and watch the fumes dance off her skin.

She said I have to chose

between a burning city and a secluded mine

it’s not at all easy for me

because my soul burns like embers

and the earth eludes me

maybe I’ll walk to a reef

to let off steam and level my thoughts.

So She laid under the stars

made out familiar faces from the sky.

Her limbs grew warm

like a volcano was erupting inside her.

Her breath waned

like the universe was buried inside her.

She heard a wolf howl

As if it too was craving a real connection.

Then everything went still.

The waves stopped crashing.

The insects stopped mid-flight.

The seconds stopped ticking

At midnight, she was still.

Like a rose waiting to be plucked

until the ground swallowed her whole

and burped up her ashes.

… A rare tenuous connection

Black realness meets pop culture

I’m still gagging.

*Warning: this post is slightly ethnic heavy*

To usher us into a new era of super fierce black realness, Solange released her new Album with her single “Almeda”. Here’s my 2 cents;

Hello 911, what’s your emerg—?


You say he’s suffering from persistent convulsions? Give that man a bolus of melanin stat!

what type?

Almeda 200ml/ 30min until he stabilises.

Yes, it is layers upon layers of brown liquor, brown sugar, black skin and everything else in between.

I normally do not involve myself with today’s music. Most are condonable until they transform into an ear worm, no thanks to the massive supply from media. However, they highly influence the creative works behind pop culture, which means it’s worth something.

My idea of pop culture revolves around a handful of artists. I’m inspired by realness—some are albeit neither popular or current. I love Kate bush, Sade, Aliyah, Erykah Badu, 2pac, Eminem and Kendrick Lamar…so maybe a bit more than a handful.

Now Solange happens to be the missing link between Pop culture and black realness. That’s because she proves it every time she releases a single. The first song from her I heard, “lovers in the parking lot”, had me obsessing without end. Her energy is ambivalent, most of the time she’s just having fun. When “losing you” came out, I was sold, hook, line and sinker. I guess I’m naturally drawn to the underdog.

The problem with the so called pop culture today, is that the masses always pit their beliefs against each other. Let’s not get into Cardi-B and Nicki Minaj shameful dirty laundry exhibition. People try to convince others that their choice of music, fashion or dance is ulterior. It’s too subjective to call. and doesn’t need to be cut-throat. For the generation Z, who happen to be the more technology savvy, peer pressure is an ancient problem.

When we listen to tunes that flow well, that impacts our psyche in an aboriginal way. So let’s enjoy the gift of music, for it adds flavour to our life—but I’m just saying Solange is Bae tho.