Constellations of Hercules 


I’m trapped under this dome of blue, it holds my gaze while changing into different hues. Upon the brilliant starlight, I found the constellation of Hercules. Kissing the horizon, I’ve laid tracks in my head that will take me anywhere. Anywhere; but I can’t bring myself to take a step. I have unpacked my bag of fears, knowing it’s not worthy of the trip, while the dome of light still holds a grip. The dome cracks as light shines upon the darkest parts of my mind, allowing my cuts to be bandaged by the compassionate and kind. My truth to you will not be of ease for me, but in the end will be my ease for I came to you, my dome of light 💡

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The Arrogance of The Pen

In the world of poetry, many poets have flung their words across the canvas and painted why the skies take after violent after dark. Marking their name across walls vibrating a bravura. While I double tap on their poetry reading words that echo through my mind. My pen has become arrogant and refuses to write. Poetry doesn’t come to the snobbish. Why do you pride yourself haughty, what have you written that’s so tidy? I’ve put down my pen for just a little while, so I can breathe a world into me that I can explore by ink. Think. It’s the new sexy! Ink. That’s always been amorous. 🖋📝🔏

395 grams of likes

Don’t forget to get away every once in awhile,
To lose yourself in a book.
Or in the streets behind your home,
Riding your bike into the sunset at the beach.
Sit on your front steps and count the cars passing by,
Lay on your roof and gaze up at the night sky.
Drive along backroads with the windows rolled down,
Listening to nothing but the sounds all around.
I hope you take the time to be alone,
To sort through the cluttered shelves of your heart.
I hope you take the time to be silent,
To close your eyes and just listen to your heart.
I hope you take the time to be still,
To quiet your mind and experience the beauty of simply being.
In a world that tells us we should always be connected,
on the go, and doing something worth sharing.
I hope you know it’s okay to disconnect, slow down, and keep some memories;
Between you and the moment you shared it with.
I know its the ‘gram with pictures that strike, but there more you can do than the 395 posts you’ve liked!

Rock, Paper & Scissors




Rock, Paper & Scissors:
Rocks can weigh the paper down,
Like dead weight you lug around.
Paper covers the rock by constricting,
Like excuses you cover all your failings.
Scissors bend and fall apart,
Like the words that sting and stab the heart. It’s the worst game of Rock, Paper and Scissors; And we are still playing it!

So, this time I’ll be the stone,
as your paper crumples into folds.
Over my dead body you don’t need to be strong, I was wrong to hold you, just like love I erode.
This time I’ll be the paper,
as your sharpen your blades.
Cut me into pieces until your misery fades.
I’ll come back with just enough tape,
pretend like I’m the hero without a cape.

This time I’ll be the scissors, as your rocky exterior holds back your very soul. Crushing me with gravity of you black hole heart, I surrender to you, take me out and break me apart.

Comfort at the bottom of a swimming pool

I want to take a deep breath and immerse,
Propel myself to your ocean floor
Where the darkness and the unknown
Has always existed but was never explored

I find comfort in the bottom of a swimming pool,
the streams of light overhead
quietly drinking in the water,
lapping at this microcosms feet.
The familiar weight
in my ears drowns out the noise,
The coolness against my soft skin
feels weightless and beautiful
the eventuality of breaking the surface
is almost sorrowful
No one can touch you here,
like a stone you sink slowly,
you are cut free from the ties
that have held you for so long
and just like the tiny bubbles
you’ll race towards the curving surface
and into the light
and realise you were never meant to breathe here.
Not long is left and you break through,
only wanting to escape
back to where everything
was so clear, and so simple.
But, although out of the water,
and into the hands of a new morning
the fingers still curl around your neck,
and you realise
you’ve been holding your breath for a long time
and you’re still holding it
And you wonder
if you’ll ever breath again.

The Du’a of A Woman

Every evening at the appointed hour after the golden sun is engulfed by the vast ocean, the marble minaret echoes carrying the call to prayer in the summer breeze. The shining domes pointing their fingers to the sky, open up reflecting the vaults of heaven singing melodies of God’s names. The god-fearing and the god-trusting all assemble as one, through the pillars of marble cravings peace enters their souls. Inscriptions in ornate calligraphy decorate the walls inside out, it’s like fuelling your spirit with the necessary food and water it needs without a grain of doubt. You come here to strengthen your faith, you go to ask for forgiveness, some come to test the waters while other pray to give up the hate.

Builders of this beautiful mosque knew where they drew inspiration from; and they made her static in a timeless dimension. She never asked for the love of the sun, nor the calmness of the moon light, she didn’t wish on the shooting stars nor complained to the unfair heavily skies. She took every pain and tear from the haters who kept her awake every night. But when she did raise her hands up to her prayer, what do you think she asked for? Through every single day she raised her hands to the direction of the sun and prayed: For her name to be taken with the one who gave her breath, the du’a in the air was the only one who knew how much she cared.

Milking the Imagination Dry

He knocked over the cup spilling all the milk onto the floor,
the topless cup swirled in the flux creating imaginary snow angels.
He accidentally fell into the milkiness of thoughts in white;
Like a ball of dust in a storm rolling to the tunes of a sultry breeze.
The al naseem twist his views as it whistles and howls past,
his dangerous heart seeks dark pretty strangers that will never have a name.
He blew rings of smoke into his lungs before he stubbed to give up yet again.
Filling his veins like the delicate stream of warm milk on the floor.
Fear in his bones of the unknown, he feared the routine,
as the empty carton of milk sat on the edge of the table.
Wishing it would all end his lungs withered.
He gathered the streams of white into a frothy puddle:
the more he gathered, the stickier it got.
Don’t cry over split milk, but it was the crying baby who gets it.
The fool just sits there with his wounds being salted by the passing sea breeze.