Daughter.

To the daughter I hope will never be born,

The daughter I never want to bring into this world.

The daughter who is better off as just an idea.

The daughter who I have always dreamed of

But would never want to conceive.

Why not a daughter?

What if you have a daughter?

What’s wrong with having a girl?

Are you a sexist?

Do you hate your own gender so much?

Would you bring a daughter into this world?

Would you want your little princess to grow up,

Eyes lurking at every corner,

Catcalls no matter what she wears,

Heart racing after dark,

Always wary.

Would you want to bring her up,

Protecting her as much as you can

Years and years of diligence,

Always warning her to be careful

To never let the old uncles get too close

To never open herself up to the wrong boy

Lest he take away her innocence

A little too soon.

To have a daughter

Would mean to raise her as a warrior

To arm her with weapons

To teach her to always keep her guard up

To train her to always be suspicious,

To finally let go and set her free

To allow her to see the world,

To cry when she comes back

And whispers to you
“He touched me…there.”

To have a daughter is to see yourself,

With those shining bright eyes

And the same pain you felt

All those years ago

When you told your mother…

“He touched me…there.”

To the daughter I hope will never be born,

I only wish I could make this world

A little better,

A little less frightening.

So you can be born

Because you would be

The most beautiful daughter.

And I could never bear

My beautiful daughter

Being defiled,

The way I was.

I could never bear

The lewd stares

Shifting from my body

To yours.

I could never bear

Watching my little baby

Growing up with

A scarred heart.

To the daughter who I hope will never be born,

This is the only way I know to save you.

Untitled.

The chasm

The empty

The vacuous

The void

The void

That grows incessantly

The space

That breaks bounds

The gut wrenching

Sensation that travels up

Up towards your throat

And slips off your tongue.

Tears welling

Hands perspiring

The unthinkable task

Two words

To forever

Negate the three.

It’s over.

Leftovers packed up

Tightly, preventing spillage

No leaks

Sealed off.

Waiting in a cool place

Waiting to be devoured

Decaying

Growing mould

White

Green

Black.

A hollowed stomach

Nothing that will satisfy

The hunger.

Scared.

She is scared. 

She is scared of losing

The only being who never made her feel inferior. 

The only being who looked past her exterior.

The only being who didn't make her feel less for being a wo-man. 

Who immediately saw what was inside and recognised

That her body was not on rent. 

The only being who came to stay despite

The erratic construction.

And unstable foundations. 

The only being who stopped her from using language against herself. 

A being who makes her feel like a hu-man. 

The only being who erased the dichotomies. 

Who eradicated the dualities. 

Who cared for her out of love and not control. 

She is scared. 

That her insipid errors

Misguided actions. 

Will push this beautiful being out the door. 

She is scared. 

That no building blocks. 

Will ever mend what she has demolished. 

She is scared. 

Escape.

One mean offence after another.

You destroy the sacred.

Left with naught.

You whither away, through the night.

Awaken with a cold, numb pain in your bones.

Move with a heaviness in your soul.

Breathe in the grimy air that was once pure.

Your veins pump a poison.

A mind swollen with remorse.

Emptiness pervades your body.

Sinking into a void.

You cannot escape yourself.

Release.

To let go of it all.

To be free of the chains that encumber your movement.

To be rid of the shackles that tie your thoughts together, forcing them to remain tethered to your being. 

What some find in numbing the senses and distracting their minds from their torturous selves.

While others find in ripping open their flesh and watching the purgation of sin. 

The lack of which pushes you to find solace in others. 

Which further pushes you into the giant pit of despair you wish to crawl out of. 

Release. 

Not to be mocked or undermined. 

Not to be disregarded. 

It is not, as many believe, a practice confined to the weak.

The strongest find themselves clutching at it, masking their true intentions from themselves.

Release. 

A complete surrender.

Temporary, but perfect, liberation. 

Release.

Night.

Its in the middle of the night,
When you lay next to the one you love.
Hear them breathe.
Watch them move in their sleep.
Feel their peaceful soul next to yours.
In the middle of the night,
When you release your fears.
You tell the demons to leave just for a few hours.
In the middle of the night,
The cool breeze on your face,
Pull the blanket a little closer.
Turn the music down a little lower.
Close your eyes and let go.
Its in the middle of the night,
When time stands still.
When you sigh and all the toxins are exhumed.
In the middle of the night,
One last kiss.
One last "I love you."
Its in the middle of the night.
Night.

The Beautiful, Collected souls.

In a world where being broken is the norm.
Indifference is the name of the game.
We fend for ourselves.
We fight our own battles.
We love each other, for our own satisfaction.
In a world where you leave them laying in a pool of their own mess.
Man eats man.
Cynicism is the law.
Trapped in a labyrinth you can't get out of.
All you want is to escape.
To lose yourself.
To find a way, to find a meaning.
In a world like this.
To meet Beautiful, Collected souls.
To meet Beautiful, Collected souls is like cool shower on a hot, sticky day.
It is like taking your socks off before going to bed.
Who are these Beautiful, Collected souls?
The people who hold your hair back while you purge yourself of poison.
The people who give you their laps and feed you lemons.
The people who drive out of their way to get you home.
The people who make you toast and tuck you in so you aren't cold.
The people who don't turn their back on you because you are unattractive.
The people who take life when it's raw and don't blur out the ugliness.
The people who make an impression that hits hard and tears you up.
The people who make you believe in humanity.
Who restore your faith.
The people you can feel vulnerable around.
When you are in a world full of darkness, the light is always blinding.
How do you handle it?
How do you deal with the illumination?
Each soul you meet has a story.
And each story has a purpose.
When souls intercept, they can either create a word, a page, a chapter or a book.
Create a series.
The Beautiful, Collected Souls.

Scavenger hunt.

What value does the body have when the mind is so easily seduced?

A kind word, an interesting comment.

An intellectual discussion in a dimly lit room with sweaty bodies around you.

At times the mind is so disorientated that it is seduced with a simple smile.

And the body is ravished. 

Now the soul, 

When the soul is found. 

It isn't that difficult to find. 

Usually handed over on a silver platter. 

Laid out for consumption.

They take a piece.

Don't like the taste. 

And then leave. 

Leaving it incomplete. 

It grows back.

But so much time elapses. 

And it never grows back completely. 

It comes to a point where the body is handed over.

The mind is left limp.

The soul hidden away. 

There is no forever. 

No yours. 

Just a simple transaction. 

You win, they win. 

But do you really win?

Does winning comprise of endless, sleepless nights. 

A butchering of your soul which has been left incomplete?

The doubt morphs into a loathing. 

A loathing that turns into a passion. 

A passion that is ingrained in your very being. 

It runs through your veins.

They all want you to be rid of the toxins. 

But you grow addicted to them. 

So many forms of reform.

None of them seem to be effective. 

You walk around in a daze.

Pretending.

Hoping they won't notice.

Self punishment becomes a norm. 

You slowly move away from the other solution you have. 

But it lingers. 

It always will. 

You're not a very attractive human being.

Yet you find they are always attracted to you.

Just enough to be intrigued.

Never enough to say. 

Some say that people aren't meant to stay. 

That it is imperative you accept that people always leave.

That sharing is not losing a piece of yourself.

Bitterness needs to be eradicated. 

Snap out of it. 

After so many years how do you snap out of anything. 

Snap. 

And it's gone. 

If only all solutions were that simple. 

Seduce my mind and you can have my body, 

Find my soul and I'm yours forever. 

-Anonymous

I've lost my soul. Let's go on a scavenger hunt. 

Untitled.

We are the future.

We are the broken down.

We are the messed up.

We are the ones they write songs about.

They write songs about how we don’t know what we are doing.

They write songs about how we are beautiful.

They write songs about how we are a disappointment.

We are the ones who have to figure it all out.

We are the ones who have to fight our way through.

This is all we have left.

Long sentences.

Rhythmic disobedience.

Confused protests.

Every person you meet.

Ever soul you have the pleasure of witnessing in action.

All of it comes together in the chaos that is our generation.

The failed aspirations and the search for meaning.

The thwarted talents and the smashed dreams.

With every passing day our sound grows from a dull hum to a fierce roar.

We don’t know what we are doing.

We don’t know where we are going.

We don’t know who we even are.

This is us.

This is one of those inspirational advertisements for jeans.

This is one of those music festivals we attend to lose ourselves.

This is the weed we smoke and the rum we drink.

We are a culmination of their mistakes.

We are the sum of our experiences.

We are the result of our biology.

These words are just another bunch strung together.

Typed out in the dead of the night on a MacBook Air.

We have substance.

We are shallow.

We are the walking contradictions.

Prepare for the end of the world.

We are the apocalypse.

Tread lightly.

Be warned.

We are the future.

A force to be reckoned with.

A force to disregard.

We are the future.  

I wrote a sonnet, titled "What's up?"

You came into my life like rain falling,
You drenched me to the bone and asked, "What's up?"
I walked to the light and heard you calling.
I looked straight at your eyes with doubt, "A cup."
With the sweet nectar you poured me a drink.
You get to your feet and, "Would you like a dance?"
We sat across the bar, I boldly wink.
I said, "Yes, not wanting to miss the chance.
After a few verses, I sat back down.
Your faces became the sun, your red eyes roared.
But then on your face was plastered a frown.
I lost my wits, and then outside it poured.
Your drizzle turned into a hurricane.
My heart, my body both drowning in pain. 

Some words.

So we are going to study the poetry of John Donne this semester. And I was just thinking the other day, because sometimes my brain takes long holidays and I stop thinking. And these words seemed to form some sentences. I don't know.

Drink the nectar.
Sweet, sour, tangy, spicy.
Allow each drop to slip down your throat.
Give your tongue the pleasure of enjoying each flavor.
Savor the richness.
Feel the tingly sensation on your lips.
An ambrosia that will never satisfy.
A liquid that will create a burning desire.
Drink the nectar.


It's been a long time. I should start writing again. 

Midnight Breeze

"Everyone has this one place,
One corner of the world 
That makes them feel back to normal and even better."

I sit on the balcony of my 16th floor apartment,
The midnight breeze blowing through my hair
Listening to the leaves rustling
Feel the air thick with moisture from the low laying clouds
I close my eyes and I am transported
To a different world.
Where nothing can harm me, 
Where I feel strangely calm.
Happy, free of inhibitions. 
The midnight breeze carries away all my worries
Takes them far away.
The midnight breeze swiftly sweeps me away
To a land of perfection.
The midnight breeze.

Music and the Soul

Music makes my soul feel good,

But for music to be made,

I need a musician.

The rhythm, the melody, and the beats,

All put together, 

Make my heart smile.

The tempo, the pitch,

If you get them just right,

Makes me glow.

But for music to be made,

I need a musician.

I dance across the room,

Like the eight-notes on a sheet of paper,

The lyrics tell a story,

One I’ve never heard before.

A story that I know so well,

One that I feel in my body.

But for music to be made,

I need a musician.

Every song is like a soul,

Waiting to rise above,

Touching other souls on their journey,

Touching my soul.

Music makes my soul feel good,

Are you my musician?

We are your instruments,

And through us you make your music.

I have my musician. 

Those Days

Morning
You wake up 
Ask yourself 
Is it worth it?
Going though another day
The same thing
Repeatedly
Why even get out of bed?
Why not just lie there?
Forever
You don’t have incentive to get it
So why do you?
It’s that little glimmer of hope.
That chance that it may be different
That today will be 
Everything you want it to be
Today will be that dream you had last night
Of the perfect day.
So you do get out of bed.
And by the time you get back to bed.
Nothing has happened.
It’s all the same. 
But still the next morning, 
You still get up.
You still think that maybe
Just maybe
Today will be different.
And so goes your life.
Day by day
Until one day you decide 
That’s it. 
You are done.
And that is the day
It happens. 
Your miracle.
You finally have your day.
And it is
Amazing. 
I’m waiting for that day.