Tools of violence

Identity violence

Symbolic violence

Communication violence

Historic violence

Revisionist violence

Repetitive violence

Infantilising violence

Nostalgic violence

Communication violence

Prejudiced violence

Tiring violence

Destructive violence

Sexual violence

Gendered violence

Religious violence

Spiritual violence

Class violence

Linguistic violence

Colourist violence

Male violence

White male violence

Co-opting violence

Toxic violence

Co-opted toxic violence

Ideological violence

Paternalistic violence

Patriarchal violence

Symbolically patriarchal violence

Promotional violence

Just violence

Violence violence

Tiring violence

Too tired coz I’m broken and it’s the result of all the above and more violence

Mental violence

Inferred violence

Implicit violence

Bright-eyed violence

Broken souls violence

The once you had bright eyes but then you got co-opted and are stuck but still need peeps and I get it but don’t you get that I get it, so why you gotta erase the stuff we excavate and stop us entering and flinging open the doors-no revision check, not open the doors break all these fracking symbolic capitalistic colonial walls – so that we can all evolve together and your tired eyes can weep and rejoice in celebration with us all, bold beautiful and brave and bound to the forward March of completing our shared ancestors abolitionist principles and journeys to create a new fair fresh deprogrammed society so we keep being we and us, and you and me, happy and free together… urgh! Gah! For f***! *sigh* but you can’t and that’s violent, violence.

So instead here we stand. Ina pyramid and I keep trying to educate and create and collate and collaborate while we survive and you thrive but I don’t even cry coz I’m proud inside that at least someone who got one part of our ancestral spirit souls good side to the table where it’s all about whose there to dine, and whose outside… not about our fellow people who die and are also pushed towards pipelines to die. Whether quickly or slowly, that’s for us all to see with our eyes.

I’m too tired to speak, so I’ll leave it to that… and sleeps for the night.


Love stories

Oh! To get lost in others’ stories again,
of love and loss constantly reimagined,
reasons to feel,
empathy to seep,
Through to my very bones,
As I pictures me in that love,
that Home,
tears flutter under these external shutters,
layered over a simmering flame,
that only finds written reasons to feel again,
weeping inconsolably,
as this wretched life touches me,
the physicality of sweet beast,
wrench all love,
all hope,
all trust,
all homes,
ripping out that love that settled in so fast, so fateful, so free.

I hope you see. This is not me. Here is no here, just an accursed “free”.
This road winds down ever so steeply.
I wish. I plead. I please. I need.


Look at all these people in their thousands,
Yearning for an existence that fulfils them.


#NaBloPoMo #29: Poetic Greed, my chained thoughts are not free..

Interesting meeting with a man today. Reminded continually of the frailty in essence of the existence of ‘the’ human condition. How existence is a personal experience, felt, reflected and renegotiated individually in the midst, in the bosom of society and culture.

All guarded I was,
Sat serene, unsure as you buzzed,
My mentality a little tired,
Your soul seemed close-to and cry’ed,
I was set apart,
I wonder what you thought as you set out this impasse?
Some flickering of light shines,
I cannot remember if I have any lines,
My curiosity piques,
But my tongue it still not yet free.
Something murky sits in between,
Communication requires patience,
A quality I cannot quite see.

Yet this condition.. I am drawn.. I wonder if you are you a whole?

I am reminded of the poet,
who has drowned out death,
through languages untold,
since days of our mutual ideological lore.

His refracted words beat in my chest,
I hold them like my faith close to my breast,
My empathic antennae quivering through viscous henna,
Quietly unsure if forces are pushing or pulling,
or that this is a base of trust blooming..

Let me leave you with these petals now,
As I allow my love, my heart to drown;

How long will you talk of the mosque lamp and the fire-temple smoke?
How long of hell’s loss and heaven’s profit?

GO, see on the Tablet how the Master of Fate
Has written what will be, before time began. 

Oh heart, since the world’s reality is illusion, 
How long will you complain about this torment?
Resign your body to fate and put up with the pain,
Because what the Pen has written for you it will not unwrite.

The Ruba’iyat of Omar Khayyam

These stanzas remind me of my love’s viewpoint. Though they stick with me, I feel in someway I am predisposed like Khayyam to keep pushing against these ideals of fate and acceptance. But more so than that to rail against or ponder on the upholding of expectation and falseness, confining cries from a world that only seeks to bind the lights within us that could shine so bright. 



#NaBloPoMo #27: …. Blank space.

Because so many thoughts, fleeted out feet first, taking over hours, clamouring over yet more barriers.

Idiosyncracies met horror, met hurt, met anxiety.. And now I feel, still breathe, all whilst I suffocate in this sea.

trained, trapped and tricked into their histories – this is the life I perceive.



#NaBloPoMo #18: An awakening of sorts

Sometimes I regret this youth’s rude awakening.

I am lost to an unknown world,
banished to roam it alone,
unknowable cannot relate this viewpoint I have,
straddling converging, conflicting thoughts and hopes,
constantly muted by each and every world,
all corners that conflate only in the instances to tell me I am wrong,
perverse, without a worthy soul or worth.
Rejected I lie,
wondering why I was ever,
ever once held in many loving arms?
Why my sensitivity and empathy was nurtured?
so that all I am left with is these deep feels.

I allowed myself to be moved for other’s good,
Hurt, poisoned, burdened and fettered to help other’s progress,
Now I keep trudging this narrow valley filled with darkened shards,
Constantly cut and ripped up,
The dull, whitehot, eternally searing pains feel so light,
Ever present soothed only by blindingly volcanic tears.

This woman is left safe in the knowledge that this soul will forever remain untouched.
Though my life, identity, body and eyes will no doubt keep being dirtied.


#NaBloPoMo #10: Keep Going – What is this? Poetry.

Before I begin, I should clarify the “missed day thing” – not just because I want to be a “good girl” and not loose any points .. but seriously back away from the points.

Anyway for as long as I remember I’ve worked on a biological farmers clock. Maybe it has something to do with my ethnical and historical background, but I genuinely believe the day doesn’t start afresh until the dawn has cracked. With that and no further adieu we shall begin:


Is this the new soul of me?
Or some crass dream?
Naively entered and lived for selfish purposed?
Like terming crash-course dieting as a “lifestyle change”,
to encourage societal love and normalising,
Belonging to the cult of productivity?
Never a space to just be,
To weep, to curse, to question,
To just feel worse.
Already I stop,
Angered and annoyed at this self that have no purpose.
Silly, strange idioms bash against this skull,
like: “The Show must Go On”
Never word actioned or practiced
By one as inactive as I.


#NaBloPoMo #8: The Precipice that could Swallow this Crow.

Waiting for the day when nothing else remains.
When all that we have and were will refuse to remain,
The day that I cease to torment us with this simmering hate,
The day you again love what I -What WE can create,
The time that can be dedicated to ourselves and not,
When love is speared again with our best shot,
But, maybe this is all just indulgent fluff,
Life is not so hurtful, not so rough,
I even have offers from long-forgotten pasts,
Long winding pasts into obscured depts so dark,
I stand momentarily unhinged yet complete,
Seeing new strengths, the many nuances of me,
Filled with such acceptance and love for them all,
The US I created within this exterior crow,
And unconfident, hurtful, sorrowful, unknowable, unlovable lore,
Not worthy of that past yet deserving of infinitely more.



My day

By taking away my only companionship,
You ostracised me,
I was alone and vulnerable today,
Emotional and ill,
Stressed to the hilt,
Saddened beyond belief,
Could you not see?
Surely as a determined fellow woman,
My gendered mirror in this unclear ether,
You should be able to see me here.

Ask my name,
Wonder from where I came?
Genuinely and deeply,
not merely for the sake of externals’ auditing,
I have a life you know,
Feelings and thoughts within me run a deep and vast course,
But here it seems it is not the case,
I am but a coloured, vacant, emptied suitcase,
A younger model who holds no acknowledgement in your face.


New Mantra.

Make amends another day.
You will always get a chance to explain.
But it is not this day and is not in an electronic way.
If they truly know you they will know what it is you were trying to say.
Language manifests, connections are made, life is but a test.
The score is not released until the completion of your quest.

Begin game.

I need to learn to stop picking at my scars, and causing yet more harm to the people I love and want to be around and help more than anyone. I also need to stop opening up social media outlets. Pouring over them. Going back on My Word. My resolutions.

So I devised this mantra, poem to help me. After all there’s a million ways to reach me and up to others to make time to explore every avenue and themselves, and I – me.