Life

Life is a riot

Molotov cocktails and burning tyres

Black smoke in the sky

That cloud up there sort of looks kinda familiar

It’s the same cloud I used to watch for hours laying

on the rooftop because in the city there are no fields

Only predetermined existence

Your peripheral visions is blinded

A file of ants from an elevated vantage point

Beingness in a loop

 Equilibrium see-saws with insanity and creativity

I shift towards art and moral decay

Laying outside, watching intelligence play

A visual nomad feeding

Light, my only dietary supplement

She Is Written

The beam emanating from the tip of a pen
Shines light between the crevices to the corridors of her soul; paper
The paper
The very fabric of her being
A dormant canvas before a raconteur's eruption
Dips empties the indelible ink fountain
My imagination poured into life

The girl I always wanted is written in calligraphy
She resembles a picture book i had as a child
The one i deliberately used the white crayon to colour
With doodles on the upper right hand corners
And my signature everywhere

PJs and corrective lenses on
Darkness cowers from the lamp on the night stand
Deconstruct her sentences and she tells subliminal nothings
Nothings tangible, which lay your on a leather couch and listen
Evoke memories of embarrassing warmth down your trousers,
Having sandwich ice creams on Sunday afternoons
And everything between your selective memory

Read to judge
My girl is bare and not covered