I write
I write,
I write not to fight,
But to love.
I write not to fight,
But to love.
I write not to fight,
But to bring light to darkness.
I write not to fight,
But to bring sight to blindness.
I write to inspire an internal fire in those who
desire to fly higher,
For my feet were never designed for the ground.
I prefer to walk on the clouds.
Where my footsteps make not a sound
And I can twirl like a mystic insouciant dervish,
around and around,
around and around.
I write to tell those who pose
not to pose
because you can’t pose
when you write prose, poetry.
Your mind,
set it free,
And fall hopelessly in love with the love of
poetry.
But to some it seems,
that the only rhyme schemes be
A,A,B,B
and A,B,A,B,
and A,B,B,A.
But that’s just not my way,
It’s just that I prefer
A,B,H,N,A and A,B,T,Z,K.
And A,
dollar sign,
question mark,
SEVEN,
exclamation point,
hash,
star,
FOUR,
equal sign,
plus sign,
SIX,
SIX,
SIX,
open bracket,
closed bracket,
X
X,
X,
smiley face,
percentage,
SEVEN,
L,
M,
N,
O,
P,
SEVEN,
Q,
W,
E,
R,
T,
Y,
SEVEN,
A,
A,
B B A,
A,
B B
A.
That’s why
I prefer not to confine my mind to prewritten
lines.
I prefer to set free my mind,
In a place where elastic lines,
Intertwine with mystic rhymes.
In these sadistic times,
It’s hard to find oneself.
Materialistic objects should not define oneself.
That’s why,
I write,
I write not to fight,
But to love,
I write not to fight,
But to love.
Evident
It’s evident,
From our decadent,
dividend driven,
dollar dazed days,
That we always need someone new to blame.
Whether that be refugees,
Aborigines,
Television twerkers,
Or Muslims in burqas.
It could just be,
that the worst is in us.
In God we trust,
But maybe God trusted us
just a little too much.
Cos we kill in his name.
Nah,
We kill cos we kill.
We kill cos we can.
We kill cos
your Gaza homes
are on my holy land,
that my God gave to my chosen
people.
We kill cos
warlords declare war holy on infidels,
When really they’re killing
for oil wells.
We kill cos,
cops kill kids,
cos colour lines
somehow seem to define
who is
and
is not equal.
We just people!
And Australia,
I know why you’re afraid.
Because the last time boats came,
They carried terra nullius terrorists.
Who left heads slain like ISIS
And left a generation stolen,
Who now sleep on sidewalks,
Trying to put back
broken
puzzle pieces
At the bottom
of booze bottles.
Boston bombs
blew minds,
While Baghdad bombs
barely make headlines
We live in interesting times,
Where geographical location,
Somehow is an indication
Of the value of a life.
Third world lives lost
might as well be livestock.
For they are put in cost columns
of conglomerate company
spread sheets
to see whether saving lives is
economically viable.
Tribal –
mentalities have caused,
Geopolitical genocide of the most
grandiose scale.
Question?
When did human lives go on sale?
Riddle.
If multinational logging corporations,
slaughter Amazonian Aborigines,
and no one is around,
do their screams still make a sound?
See I’ve found,
that most of us live our lives in
boxes.
For we’ve built these boxes,
to block out external factors,
like facts that,
33% of the world’s
population is
considered starving.
And it’s hardly,
acceptable,
That we’ve got this conceptional idea,
That survival of the fittest
means we leave our brothers
behind.
But when did the fittest become the fat cats?
For I dream that
we have leaders that’ll lead us,
rather than bleed us dry.
And I wish that I could tell that everything is going
to be alright.
But honestly,
sometimes,
I
just
don’t
know.
Faith
Faith,
I was always told faith was blind,
But I prefer to see mine,
Cos see I’m
a dissident,
discordant,
devilish,
disbeliever.
Who decisively decided that he’s dazed and
definite,
that religion could be,
maybe,
is,
a life prerequisite.
That’s why I continually question it,
And lurk on cold pathways.
And wait for the right phrase,
For lyrical miracles.
I’m not a spiritual teacher.
Nor a empirical preacher.
I’m a Torah, Qur’an, Biblical reader.
A Siddhartha Gautama Buddha believer.
Faith is my love,
That’s why I need her.
I need faith like I need to breathe.
I need to breathe like I need to eat.
I need to eat soul food.
Food for my soul.
As I grow old,
I seek to start meditating,
levitating,
elevating up above.
Yo bruv,
Where’s the love gone?
Bring back the days of the true love songs.
Bring back the days
when we used to play,
used to pray,
used to say
what we wanna say.
Nowadays,
it’s all power games.
I miss the days when
Mumbai was still Bombay,
Back before that terrible September day,
When those two planes,
Forever changed the New York skyline.
I long to take back what’s mine.
I long to take back what’s mine.
I long to take back what’s mine.
My freedom of speech.
My freedom to preach.
My freedom to roar
at the top of my lungs
till my mouth gets sore.
For I,
Only know one holy war,
And that’s to love more and hate less.
And for some jihad means terrorist.
But jihad means struggle,
And I jihad on the daily
to be the best me
that I can be.
Cos terrorism, knows no religion.
Was it not terrorism,
When terra nullius was claimed
and people were slain in the name of
the all mighty British Empire.
That’s why,
I long to inspires you to view religion from
the other sides eyes.
For I am not Muslim, nor Jew,
I am not Christian, nor Hindu.
I am me,
I am you.
We are us,
We are one.
He Said
He said,
“Go back to where you came from,
YOU
DIRTY
TERRORIST!”
He called me,
A dirty terrorist.
But,
To be honest,
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this.
So I’ve become used to such abuse,
And I’ve learnt to pick and choose
what I listen to.
But this,
this was new.
This time,
This middle aged man,
Held in his hand,
The hand of his ten year old son.
And I’m not one to tell someone how to
raise their seed,
But this,
This made my soul bleed,
black, boiling, blood.
For when I have a son,
Ima teach him love,
Ima teach him respect and acceptance,
For all creatures in existence.
But this man,
He didn’t seem to understand,
That his
Wicked
Words,
Would manifest,
In the chest,
Of his son.
Leaving him with a hate filled heart,
He’ll go to school with,
Thinking its cool to,
Act
just
like
dad.
And call that kit kat brown kid a dirty Ayrab.
And trust me,
You should stay back,
When I’m in a mind frame,
Where Ima name and shame
a racist terrorist.
And,
for the next 4 minutes
I waged war with my words.
My lyrical jihad was heard,
Down every street in Wagga Wagga.
My poem of mass destruction,
Caused destruction of
Hiroshima and Nagasaki proportions.
People,
Please,
Proceed
with caution.
For I,
Rock no suicide vest,
But I assure you,
A bomb
Lies
inside
this
chest.
Ready for love explosions of the most poetic
kind, I am a terrorist –
of the mind.
Spreading extremist ideals of
Peace,
Love,
Harmony,
One
poem
at a time.
So when I rhyme,
I rhyme
Not to be heard.
But to be heard.
Word