أَعُوذُ بِٱللَّهِ مِنَ ٱلشَّيۡطَٰنِ ٱلرَّجِيمِ، بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

some days are sweaters of anguish, wrapped tightly on the self, holding the fury of unanswered questions, measures falling short, of minimum levels i need to have reached but still dispossessed of. 

am i the only one on the outside looking in? society marching forward, careless of efforts or struggles of nameless ones, long needed belonging but been decades since i spliced it from the thesis of my being, so i remain averse to an essential ingredient every mortal was created as needing.

persistence, patience; the finest of twinned blades, best with which to leave streaks in the soul and underneath flesh before signs appear, carving out methods of how to walk as one who is slave. there is no paper with enough space, no pen with enough ink, to spell out the depth of inadequacy when an ideal is the measure of self, so it invariably falls short, an engine without fuel, all you could see, is the trace of my plumes in the sky, left in the trail of where i tried to be. 

hope battles pessimism, potential with reality, possibility with displacement, sometimes the nomadic one can only see what he is as homeless, truly being of statelessness, internal equivocations the only sounds to his ears nearest. one simple most beautiful light, in the midst of all the unknown, my Sunlight when she bends around any corner, by sight or sound, my beloved is home.