One must first accept, with their vast treasure trove of discrepancies and ambiguity they call their self expressive mind, this unavoidable principal of creativity before they delve into any form of recorded self-expression. That is, that once an idea has been left to set and dry, becoming stagnant (recorded), it will never again reflect the artist's current interpretation of said idea or their universe.
I hardly ever write with a prescribed structure, I tend to follow patterns and tones established only by myself. It's difficult for me not to regard poetic structure as a limitation on my creativity; then again, I have a specific writing style that I've been developing in a certain way that's specific to me. I've created a niche for myself; but this self proclaimed niche of mine can also be a sort of limitation, because I've become hesitant to incorporate things like structured rhythm and rhyme into my poetry.
In no particularly desired order:
My Dear Friend
My dear friend, it has been so long; there is nothing else, there can be nothing more.
Years pass,
You visit your parents, and sit at the familiar dining table.
She has remained a secret
Her voice is still in the walls...
It has been so long.
You remember the golden cage you made for her out of the countless memories and the Countless faces.
From afar, you gaze into her warm ever-changing eyes, leaving your parents to their semi-Obscured son.
While clenching the golden bars, you remember your old meeting place, and find the key.
There is nothing else.
You stand up, and open the door to the front yard; passing the tyre swing, the only thing your Parents ever understood.
With golden key in hand, you walk to the end of the driveway, and reconvene in The sky.
Her face is clearer here, but she won't look at you.
There can be nothing more.
You place the key into the lock with a quaint composure holding your gaze in the direction of her eyes.
You begin to open the cage; but halt, as she looks up at your grey hair.
She turns her back, and her eyes decend once more.
You back away, off of the cement and onto the grass.
Dropping the key, you turn around;
Adjusting your gaze through the tyre swing, you see your parents.
You are not surprised by their smiles;
But you now welcome their enduring faces.
You revel in the silence, as you re-enter the house.
There is a Man
There is a man who lives in a small town. This man's name is irrelevant because trivial things like names are rarely considered in this quaint and distant little town.
This man lives in a three storey apartment building on the second floor overlooking the central square, he hears the fountain water trickling down at night.
He regards not his neighbours nor they him, what is there to pursue? A person living in this outcast of a town desires only one thing. This thing exists as a sullen idea to most, for few actually know what it is.
This man, our protagonist, lives with the rare knowledge that so many wonder about, he yawns away the dripping thoughts while entering his slumber. But why does he know? His senses are no different from any other, his career is nothing special, and his desires are certainly no different from anyone else's. This man is hiding something.
His tell lies not in his walk, a mechanised obfuscation, but in his stance. Only an outsider can recognise it. A musal gaze, the stare into oblivion; a tell-tale heart, in sleepy guilt as it trickles down her neck to the ground.
Guilt will always shine through the body, that is a fact of humanity; but not everyone can perceive on the spectrum in which this fact is conveyed. The lingering thoughts muzzle his composure, he can do nothing but stare and relive the memories.
She sees no reason, he hears no sound; she sleeps away the night at his side. Exhibiting disdain, he ponders his fate, the confusion, the silence. He yawns it all away. What so many desire is the treasure trove of knowledge, but few can see the unknown path leading to it.
He travels wisely as it all trickles down her neck to the ground. Unambiguous composure, his soaking clothes pulse hypnotically.
Madness
Today is the day the trees will see reason,
Today is the day the rocks will be my friends.
I woke up with a terribly wonderful idea this morning:
I step into the realm of madness.
I awaken with boiling anticipation as I embrace the kneading worm in my stomach.
Gotta Write Gotta Write
"Bloody hell..." He said staring at his screen with fingers tapping his desk in perpetual pondering. "What more is there to say?" Ideas, shovelling their way from the back of his mind circuit by circuit, hoping for materialisation.
All attention is on the tapping, the incessant tapping, the rhythmic pulsing-reverberating his thoughts, shocking ideas, shocking! the continuous tapping ceases as his arms cross, rain-jacket crinkling, no-sense no-sense. "447 words, so only 53 more; but where do I go now? So many options..." His thinking, back, before the-shocking|the-shocking, His mind clear, look at all there is to see! His thoughts open, circuits free, free to think; but free to ponder...with arms wide, and a finger a-tapping-a-tapping.
Ideas bucket down like a heavy rain; flooding thoughts heave their way forward, jumbled mess, no structure, what more is their to say? ill-fitting coat? no, what's in his pocket? Ticking and tapping, incessant clock, circuit by circuit; so many options! No sense no sense.
Untitled
(Written after Allan Harding MacKay destroyed some of his artwork on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation in protest of the Harper Government (Canadian Conservative Government)
Subtlely, damp cloth taps dry dusty soot.
Steadily, side to side.
Parting.
Orcheastral visage, brush your white pulp hairs.
requiem of one thousand words, persevering through hymns of hate.
The delicate dabbing transforms into the painful shrills to be remembered.
Screams so sour, this sick soot. Such slime!
So quick, the chaotic snap.
As the oportune silence prevails, we plea for this opus to be forgotten.
Spinal Cord Grace
To skateboard with grace, so familiar.
Kick, push, glide, so clear but vibrant.
Vibrations like waves, standing on ocean.
Beyond sensation; totally reaction, no reflection.
Stick, stand, slide, slow; all the same.
Spinal cord grace.
Sitting In a Yellow and Red Room.
Sitting in a yellow and red room, the ceiling is white with stubble.
Floor frayed gray. This room has been assigned to the front corner of
the house, slanted walls. Littering the floor lays the various and the
precarious, but without haste, I continue to examine. The rubbish
eclipses the bed and the desk. There is a sturdy wooden stool standing
with me sitting ontop, erect, enacting a lighthouse scan of it all. The
floor is close,
but not close enough; my feet barely graze the carpet hairs. A spot on
the floor, free of it all. I reestablish my gaze upon my perch as I
allow for all distal projections to escape me, refusing to let them
slither through my jugular. The thinking mind vacations with the heart
as I stumble about the remainder of the room, I glance through the
square metre window. Holes in the screen.
I stand easily to my feet, free of it all; but encircled by the
petulent scrawls, I grow weary of what's to come. Jagged corners and
confusing scraps, I wish for the end of it all. The tumors of thought
trickle through, unfleeting anxiety. I step a harsh step, soaring
bloated blood to my blinded head; carpet hairs rise a brazen. She
exudes the silhouette so familiar, there's no question of her intent;
but I ask anyway. I return to my perch in a yellow and red room,
ceiling white with stubble; waiting for something different.
Fireworks
He'd lay barefoot in the sand breathing the moist ocean air. There are the clouds.
He'd bask in the sun as the warmth trickled along his stomach. There are the families.
He'd time his pulse with the waves, as the breeze chilled his scolded stomach. The many boats aligned.
The Sun prepares for its nightly cryogenic swim, he'd gaze with her as it sailed over the edge.
She never liked the smoke.
It conducted so finely and alas, dwindled its last flame, he clapped. She clapped.
He'd scrawl in the sand commemorating the occasion. There is the wind.
She'd thank him and say that she'd had enough.
He'd point to the many families staring above.
She'd point ahead to the many boats aligned.
He'd point above, but she never liked the smoke.
Oil Sands
Pointless plethora o' penny; preparation for party political passion; plagiarous people Plying poor pence.
Poisonous plastic people plotting pointless pastures, replacing the penniless and the Perturbed.
Slurping slobbering tongues of serpants obscured in slithered surmise;
Falsely contributing to headless morrows without regretful demise.
Powerful plugs pillaged by peoples pliers;
Plying and plying weary wires.
Dare I drive the drenched slurping serpant starway?
Shall I arise, to revel in rogue realities awry?
In the tumultuous urban trenches, grand gluttonous termites ravage the delicious "sandy Freedom".
Outsider
Immediately he looked like an outsider. It doesn't matter what he says,
nothing can convince me that his opinion has any weight. Sitting there
alone, casually, soft smile on his face. Why is he here? Outsider.
The long hair, unkempt facial hair, the hole in his jeans; I know they don't mean anything. We're all products
of our experiences, he can't help who he is; but they sure don't help.
Shouldn't he be at school, or work? Where's his girlfriend? Why is he
laughing?
You need to start when you're a kid. He's 21, maybe 22; too old to become one of them. It's a brain development thing.
After the show, on his cellphone.
He spoke with a steady, prevailing rhythm, laughing again, colloquialisms easily conjured.
He smiled as he stopped to gaze at some paintings on the wall before he left
Alone.
So it's not just music. Outsider.
This is awesome. I love you Imad. Publish this!
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