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


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