Purification.

Have you been baptised in the river Ganges
or tasted the sweet, succulence of pomegranate?
It beckons you with a single gesture,
then lingers like fragrant jasmine.
No funeral pyre is complete without its song,
a haunting melody that intoxicates the senses;
glimpses of past lives flash in your mind
transporting you to simpler times.

10 Ways To Embrace Love Instead.

01. Aspire to focus on the good, and always count one's blessings.

02. Embody the change I wish to see, not only in the world, but also in myself by striving to be the best version of me.

03. Accept that setbacks occur, and learn to utilize them as a catalyst for growth.
03B. Then, revisiting these same lessons until they are learned, to prevent the formation of patterns.

04. Prioritze the people and things that serve the greatest good, distance oneself from those which are destructive.

05. Remember that each day is a brand new opportunity to conquer the world, and to wake up with an attitude of gratitude.

06. Take inventory with oneself regularly, in order to ensure all needs are being met.

07. Silence the mind long enough to listen to intuition.

08. Set out to accomplish at least one ignored task daily.

09. Realize health and self-care are crucial; strive to lead a healthier, cleaner life.

10. Defeat the urge to be hypercritical of others or of oneself; focus on honesty instead.

Hurt.

She permitted a single, sobering tear to stream down her right cheek,
as she tightened her grip on my hand, and began to speak:

"You asked me where it hurts, and forgiveness would not be an easy task, if I were to lie and pretend I am fine, instead of wearing many masks." 

"It hurts everywhere", she continued, "there is no inch of me without pain. Nor is there a moment in my day without ache, tension, or strain." 

Then the dam broke, and her sadness poured from her like a flood, 
waves of nausea washed over me at the sight of her sadness stained by civilian blood. 

"Take for instance, Israel or the Gaza Strip, right here in the Middle East," at this, she pointed to her abdomen and winced like it was being devoured by some unseen beast.

Humans have destroyed me, killing one another in the process,
the ugliness of man is unlike any other to prevent its own progress.

Their bombs rip me to shreds, and replace my beauty with craters; 
once there was a time the other planets envied my never-ending nature.

Now, they laugh at me, for allowing myself to grow old and decay,
if I could do one thing over, I would have refused to let humans have their way.

As soon as they invented gunpowder, I knew the end was near,
now I peacefully await my death, I no longer have any fear.

They forced one another into camps, waged wars creating wastelands, drained my oceans of water, and shortened my once eternal lifespan."

At this, she sagely crossed her legs and sat down on the ground,
she began to cradle Africa and screamed, without emitting a sound.

"This is where it all began, but then greed robbed my daughter of her speech, every evil man on Earth had his way with her, then erased her history with bleach

Once, her wildlife was teeming, elephants, and rhinos roamed the Serengeti, but now even her diamonds have been plucked and resold, although they were once free."

She began to cough, as she recalled nations overwhelmed by smog,
pollution filled her lungs, and toxic waste filled her arteries with clogs.

"I am unsure what I did to deserve such ungrateful guests,
who took the resources I gave them, then raped me and took the rest.

You asked me where it hurts, and I can only reply with 'everywhere,'
no mother exists who could survive her own child's chemical warfare."

Wrecked.

Reduced to rubble, from missiles careening,
sirens wail, signaling incoming threats.
Blood dyes the streets red from casualties,
filling the air with the unmistakable stench of death.

Children orphaned in seconds,
from wars waged for the greed of men,
there is no humanity under duress,
when will we learn to love instead?

Entire cities destroyed in an instant,
they say all is fair in love and war,
widespread suffering and sadness
replace the peace that existed before.

All this ugliness for no reason,
for hand drawn borders in vain,
until mankind relinquishes its ego,
history will repeat itself again.

Birds Of A Feather.

She walks with her head held high, with the majesty of birds of prey. With her hips swinging rhythmically, she commands any room she enters, turning heads for different reasons. Her gait emulates American bald eagles, yet society solely see her as a peacock.

A woman can only be pretty, they say her beauty is all that defines her. These double standards are restrictive, and prevent girls from becoming hawks; it forces them into a brand, then keeps them locked up in a box.

Pigeonholed by the age of three, young women are being programmed to believe they can only be desired for their looks.
They are discouraged from being bold, ridiculed for being brave but males—they can be anything and are supported by their peers.

For a female to be confident like a crow, or as self-important as a snowy owl is demeaning. She must possess the grace of a crane, or like a bird of paradise, she should be aesthetically appealing.  

Some of her sisters even keep their distance, choosing to side with their oppressors who coop them up like chickens. What they fail to see is that these false concepts were created by frightened men in suits in conference rooms, and board room meetings.  

They were designed to keep women inferior, and confined to lives centred on their wombs which they cannot even control. Unjust ideals invented to prevent equality, to ensure that daughters of Eve stay in their lanes that lead to dead ends on one way streets. 

For a sister or a mother to aspire to fly is laughable to men who have never even attempted to take flight. They think their superiority is innate, because their fathers tell them lies that are then corroborated by heads of state.

Whether equality is ever achieved or not, I still believe it is more admirable to be a bird with clipped wings who is determined to soar, than a cowardly ostrich with his head buried deep in the dirt.

It is still preferable to see these young ladies rallying together as ravens, instead of conceding to defeat from their counterparts, cackling geese who have become complacent. 

Comfortable with the idea of spending their existence as common pheasants instead of daring to be different.  Wrens whose wings were rendered obsolete, toucans who traded in beaks for pressed white dress shirts, higher wages, and a false concept of masculinity that is so weak.

They are threatened by free women, like the huntress lioness who provides for her hungry children. Men are emasculated by matriarchs who are self-sufficient as their existence relies on feeling needed.  A woman who prevails without a male unnerves them to their very core.

Without the women they marginalized, upon whom they are still dependent, these daft dodo birds helplessly become endangered. They are then sentenced to death by the same double standards they delivered, a fate more bittersweet than it is sour.  

Even the most explicitly misogynistic males transform into mourning doves once they are deprived of their subjugated swans' direction. Suddenly, there is no evidence of their strength and they are lost without the guidance of the quetzal queens they counted as mere possessions. 

Massacre.

A massacre pardoned
conjures up genocides. 
I am cursed by this
forgiving nature; 
it corrodes me. 
Had you shot me 
with silver bullets,
I would still kiss
your smoking gun.
Violence, like yours,
should not be forgot.
But somehow, my head
always turns to ignore it.
As though, looking away
negates its existence. 
I could be between
your sharp teeth,
and convince myself
you did not mean it.
To say I am naive 
is an understatement.
Not even a fool
could be so dense.
Like a masochist,
I return for a second helping
of your appetizing abuse,
then still come to your defense.
I swallow every bite,
savouring the taste as I chew.
No excuse too contrived
when I sacrifice myself
for your illness.
Now I burn at the stake
for crimes I did not commit.
My only regret remains
in believing you were innocent.

Aura.

Searching through the same old subterfuge,
bits of shrapnel cut into my day old skin.
Defiantly determined to dodge the deluge,
I refuse to drown despite being unable to swim.

A pair of possessed peepers watch my dance,
branches bristle then crunch under unseen feet.
I am on auto-pilot. Failure's left me in a trance,
as I am hollow as the corpses of rotten trees.

I grab a handful of gangrene covered leaves—
squeeze every tear out of my stony heart.
Avert your gaze while this lifelong widow grieves,
with heaving chest, I fall apart.

This enchanted forest is haunted by my remorse,
unable to escape its curse unless I learn;
the end will come once I bury my dead, beaten horse,
until then, the world will not stop burning.

Rust.

All we can do is dream,
keep chasing after silver streams—
dollar signs flash as we speed by.
The only certainty is that we die.

Distorted reality blurs meaning,
tragedies occur without reason.
Hope waivers, careening,
The truth is rarely appeasing.

Tempered glass shatters;
the shards on the floor look like diamonds.
Survival is all that matters,
when my head hides wailing sirens.

One day, my sun refused to rise,
broken down from shining over lies.
Nightfall never left my side,
no visibility in a charcoal sky.

Though I braved storms
earthquakes, and landslides,
suddenly the feather wind
even bruised my pride.

What do you tell two tired feet,
or hands wrinkled from wringing?
Not even paradise itself could
stop my shuttered eyes from stinging.

When faith runs out,
carrying on seems pointless.
Sometimes success even
prefers avoidance.

That is when I start to sink.
I melt like wax on the parquet flooring.
Scrutinize every crack then
accost myself for ignoring it.

I become a magnet for suffering,
repelled by my own self-detriment.
Copper, as I blush then rust.
Seizing up, I crumble to dust.

Division.

All you knew were fairy tales,
you were no stranger to luxury.
You grew up in a good neighbourhood,
came from a respectable family.

Here I was, this broken doll,
from the wrong side of the tracks.
Spent my childhood in bars,
drinking cheap whiskey and Jack.

It was clear as day for all to see,
that we were not equally yoked.
Despite our many differences,
we still laughed at the same jokes.

You took a chance on me,
and ventured outside of your comfort zone.
I came from rags, you made me feel rich.
Our love was my million dollar home.

Eventually, we ran out of time,
just like they said we would.
All things come to an end,
especially when they are good.

I wiped a single tear away,
snuffed out our candle's flame.
Now, it's been several years,
but somehow my lips still taste your name.

Bulletproof.

Incorrigible landscape,
that cannot be recreated.
There is no copy and paste here.
Ticking underneath my ribcage,
a sleeping dragon awakens.
Beating to the rhythm of birdsongs,
one misstep could collapse a civilization.
A glance mistaken capable
of crashing stock markets.
Your guess as good as mine
what could make it plummet.
Sending shockwaves through nations,
like a sonic boom.
Tremors that create rifts in the Earth,
like natural disasters.
Corrugated cardboard heart of mine,
often recycled,
occasionally left behind.
One wrong move and limbs go flying,
splattering the air,
like the paint of possessed artists.
A twisted scientist,
he is a tortured genius.
His every project,
government green-lit.
Imagine such power,
the kind to be marvelled.
With enough force to
crumble mountains;
one snap of his fingers
and the world is reduced to shrapnel.
Dust clouds the sky reducing vision.
There is no clarity here,
it vanished like a magician.
Sometimes he is the court jester,
others, the king.
One misinterpretation is all that is needed
to result in widespread suffering.
So, be quiet and still.
Proceed with caution,
treading on egg shells,
so he remains sleeping.
While he is dreaming,
there will be peace in the district;
no chaos in these streets,
tonight.

Funhouse.

Whirling in circles, 
thoughts race through my mind 
like I'm stuck in the spin cycle.
I thought I knew better,
believed I had learned from this.

Yet here I am again turning, 
and twisting my words, 
might as well take a book
and hollow out its pages–
rendering them useless.

Why do I do this.
Repeatedly committing to
this insanity that robs me of peace.
Mea culpa, why does it have to be.
It steals my slumber and my dreams.

Everything is charcoal filtered;
it stings like lemon juice in fresh splinters.
Scars on my face, bruises on my knees.
Papercuts on my fingertips,
that you drown in overproof whiskeys. 

I hear a fizzing before 
everything fades to black. 
I regain consciousness 
swimming in the blues.
Is this the brand new me?

Or a recycled, carbon copy? 
An upgraded version or just 
a software update for free.
A never before seen silhouette 
or the same old ghost I used to be.

I just can't keep up, 
with racing against the clock
like it means anything anyway.
Progress will not be forced,
it cannot be reproduced.

All the plastic in the ocean,
and I'm still more artificial.
Will this old, rust coloured 
bicycle chain wear away 
so it finally can be replaced?

Because I swear I keep changing gears 
and still end up getting nowhere.
These wings on my back are just for show.
The horns inside my head continue to grow.
I chased the monsters out from under my bed.

I'm the one who cleared all the cobwebs.
Buried the skeletons in my closet.
But my demons remain, regardless.
They refuse to fade away.
These ghouls delight in my downfalls.

Applauding every single time I fail.
Snickering sheepishly, bearing the sharpest teeth 
from their seats in the audience, 
they take pleasure in watching me 
tumble away from the best of me.

I land face-first in what's left of me.
Beads of sweat dance on my forehead,
I stop to catch all my lost breaths.
The room becomes a merry go round,
that's been hijacked by a bloodthirsty clown. 

Vertigo takes control of me,
I collapse from anxiety.
Stuck in this funhouse maze,
my own distorted reflection 
stares back at me in judgement.

White gloves reach through the walls
pulling me in every direction.
Suddenly put on trial for these patterns
then insulted for my imperfections. 
I've yet to learn my lesson.

I gave my future the kiss of death.
through my own stagnation.
Through bated breath, 
I accepted eternal damnation.
I still yearn to learn my lessons.

Slain.

Let freedom ring, it reigns supreme.
Liberty's bell solely tolls for thee.
Red, white, and blue but only for you.
For me, red is the blood of my brothers and sisters you've murdered.
White, the ticket of privilege that buys you luxuries my melanin can't afford.
And blue? Blue is the police force that engages in brutality.
Its sole criteria for ending a life is colour.
I pray for the day there is no news of injustice.
No headlines about rapists who are freed whilst teachers are wrongfully killed.
Mama, when can we stop digging graves?
Help me understand when we stop being slaves.
Will we ever be saved?

There seems to be no end in sight to this crusade.

Is it reckless, are the riots in vain?

All that ever changes are the names of the innocents slain.

Spellbound.

You change states 

like a magician.

From fire to water, 

then back again. 

I feel you in the air, 

you ground me,

like the Earth. 

And then you vanish. 

Poof!

In a cloud of smoke 

you disappear 

and leave me reeling. 

That is when 

I started 

searching 

for you. 

Dancing in the moon's shadow, 

I retrace my steps. 

The light from a single black candle 

casts a glow on my intrigued face. 

My breath steadies, 

my mind's eye 

replays pleasant memories of 

us together. 

I would look possessed 

to an outsider,

but you. 

You are inside me. 

Only you see my concentration. 

Devoted like the congregation

of some old, unfamiliar church. 

You become my religion; 

I worship at your altar. 

Prostrate at your feet. 

Suddenly, the smell 

of sage fills the room.

Rejoice. 

I am released.

I float up to the ceiling, 

then higher.

Looking down on stars, 

holy water bursts forth 

from my stony heart 

and I feel my way back to you. 

I am light, 

you are the dark. 

Flesh of my flesh, 

blood of my blood. 

I taste you on my tongue, 

and know it won't be much longer now 

until we return to childlike innocence

and enlightenment. 

Daddy's Double Life.

At half past five each Friday, 
Samuel keyed-in his security
alarm's four-digit code, 
closing his office for the weekend.  

He tightly clutched his 
chestnut leather briefcase, 
before hurrying to catch 
the first train home.

Conceding to the defeat of his 
heavy-framed tortoise-shell 
Armani glasses while they 
cut into the bridge of his nose;

Samuel unlocked his apartment door, 
greeted Madge, his cat, 
and then kicked off 
his alligator shoes.

It was no secret at work that he was gay, 
but their jaws would drop if they ever found out 
he spent his weekends dancing in skin-tight dresses, 
as a British woman named Samantha Fox. 

Samantha had existed just as long as
Samuel had known that he was queer.  
She came to life, one magical day when he 
looked in a mirror but instead of his reflection, 
she appeared. 

He turned up the speakers, 
blasting Aretha and Babs, 
as he sat down to paint. 
Priming his face for cake, 
he glued down his eyebrows, 
then let Samantha take the reins.

She sipped on a gin on tonic, 
as she applied foundation 
then contoured her face.  
Within minutes, Samuel disappeared, 
and Samantha sat in his place.

False eyelashes and acrylic nails 
were the final touches to her look.  
Samantha zipped herself into 
a revealing royal blue dress, 
then let her six-inch stiletto heels 
carry her off into the night.