A self-editing mechanism, mutually shredding a guitar

The blues of it, the itch, the ache in running sandpaper through infant skin

The different ways I come back to you, the same way you receive me

Too many humans, their vagueness a stream you drink from, time and again

The embezzler in you they think is rogue; you qualify as honest

What is dishonesty but honesty to few?

What is honesty but diplomacy to the masses?

I changed the day you looked at me odd when I picked the cherry with the longest stem

You thought it was a no-brainer I did so for the knot, just a tease, but I didn’t

At the time, the only thing with a knot was my tongue, yet, I wasn’t tongue-tied

Let me walk you through the irony of it…see…the deeper the roots of the stem, the kinder the juice to spill when you pull it out

‘cherries belong to the rose family’

The big five

The most economic, yet the deadliest

If you can’t kill the culprit, at least get your hands on his partner in crime

The brighter scarlet, the sour in tasteless sweet

An old encyclopedia you just dusted off, and put back on the shelf

After all, wasn’t there a dead rose in it? Ah, but its fragrance remains…



Wandering through history

A train going backwards, a swing raped by the air

Carrying false hope, rough tracks call for adventure

How can you know? You just do

How can you tell? It’s a mirror set to clear itself

A sequence of origami flying over your head

Making you believe paper was the real thing instead

One bald patch, does not indicate success

Neither does a tired spirit, or the desire to be somebody else

You’re a copy of a copy of a copy

Metamorphosing into the tertiary

Forgetting the primary, the prime, sublime.

I don’t hold my quill in hopes of,

sticking it back to the arse it detached from!

Neither do I wish to conquer it

For shedding its skin

Over my skin

Like a tint of paint in water

Certain thoughts outspread, and dissolve into what needs to melt

Never would I have known, that a city in ruins

Compared to a jigsaw, was far less confusing

A wise man once read the wonders of the world

By admitting that he wasn’t meant to be

Just another person wandering through history

Secrets don’t just unfold onto anyone…

Struggle and division

It’s not that complicated really, nerves wrecking the signals sent
to the intellectual, the emotional, the moral or spiritual
What else would we have been capable of?
We already proved everyone wrong.

Killed. Saved. Killed, saved
Killed to save. Saved to kill
Tried both
The weak pretended to be strong,
this threatened their plan B.

“Be realistic, not sorry.”
No one feels your apologies as much as you
Much less the struggle to present some eulogy
Who wasn’t meant for the deceased but the spectators
Who kind of just went along, nodding at the host.

‌‌‌Two kinds of divisions actually multiply us more
Mere numbers, and scattered letters trying to make sense
The latter cannot conform without the former
Like the lazy protagonist who still made it big
Only because he measured the number of his ideal to the detail of his being
Combined and sealed them both together, rather than waiting to find his work’s meaning.