The poor doesn’t care

I watched you pack your things
And left for freedom,
But since when was freedom mired in dirt
And relegated to the margins,
Where street piss and spit lather your bed
On that cold asphalt floor where you find sleep.
You hold out a washed out Timmy’s cup
Emptied of contents save for the unfettered echo of loose change.
The walkers ignore you;
Bikers and motorists don’t have time for you.
Winter approaches;
You peer down at your fingertips,
Jarred from previous bouts of frost bite,
But you don’t cry.
Sprouts long drawn dry,
Alongside every hope and dream
That this state would be temporary.
Under the bridge,
Under the Gardiner Express,
As they come and go frolicking with privilege,
Under there you shall go.
In the protective brace of irresponsibility and reproach
To forget you ever were.



Drench these voids in your wretch
Putrid and hollow,
Fecesed to your marrow,
Shackled to your heroin name.
A melody chimed into Homeric tempest,
You keep me coming back,
Drugged off your worth,
Your role, your status;
An enmity to self-perception;
I want you more and more,
Marked by your coat thickened in barbs and prickle.
Those ploys intended on reinforcing that place I dug,
Here where the dirt and water mix to mud
And I, that savage beast,
Who hinges on the denial of past defeats,
Soaks in the foolishness torn from unsunken pasts
And then sucks the life dry,
Till a holocaust of dreams lie piled, bloodied and limp,
Dead from my grip


Patron saint of consummate love, coatailed by boundless consecrations of irrefutable devotion; the worth of it all, the worth of you, insurmountable. You were in our dreams, an undegradable decadent, the only absolute that promises unconditional certainties. Only experience can dote upon beholders the expanse of your enchantment, the hypnotic endearment that holds the world in place through undissenting warmth, care, and regard. You strike through undisguisable fog like the crash of Thunder, layered under rumblings of golden stature. Blissful sunsets and sunrises war for your sincerity in the occasional blunders of men. You are the cause for color, the reason why the sky burns bright blue in your shine’s gaze. The sons, daughters, brothers and sisters you have birthed and bore through the midst of life, we all understand that you’re our closest thing to clarity in a chaotic world; you are the only constant, the accord in which meaning and dreams are given fruitful purpose. Without your motherhood, without your maternal forbearance, there would be little for us to love and make sense of. 

An Empty Stare 

Our prenuptial agreement laid to waste.

You lied when you said you needed me.

I fell in you, ceded to you every dollar of my worth, every inch of my heart. 

Christened by naivety, the belief that prosperous seredipity would keep the path straight. 

Backdropped against incorrigible truths, the things I knew – 

The things that I thought I knew –

morphed into a beast more monstrous than the most inconcievable of anathemas. 

Rainbows’ cadence pouring down colour into bleeding eyes, 

A perversion of the world’s incredulity. 

Understanding, the search for understanding 

In the blank of unmystified chaos,

And battle worn wane to the merciless grasp of the uncontrollable

Become an all to familiar burden to bear.