Author: Daniel Ali

By Daniel Ali

You readers trust written things too much,

honesty is not a poet’s obligation –

even unfiltered thoughts are pulsed through a poetic sieve.

Adulting is unclean–

mediocre and cynical,

like an untuned piano.

Who am I?

I’m a hoarder’s untouched basement,

artefacts of everybody I have ever met.

I occupy the space in my head too much,

resorting to memories

to find feelings.

This comes naturally to me,

divulging like this,

I wish I could talk to her so fluently.

Societies and times change

but people never do.

Stale progression, stagnant evolution.

Today’s snow is cold and

my dog will not settle.

I think my brother has the flu.

Featured Image: Toby Dossett

By Daniel Ali

for Her. 

I hate to be the poet that professes an 

undying love for a beautiful soul. 

By declaring her smile would undoubtedly 

brighten the earth more than a summers 

day in May. 

Who discusses the extravagantly detailed 

pools of mahogany which surround her 

pupils. 

Who encourages conversations of topics 

she loves just to hear the sounds she makes 

when joining letters to form words.

I hate to have someone read this poetry as a cliche, 

In contrary belief to millennial ideologies of cringe,

If I, 

a self acclaimed poet, 

in attempts to profess an undying love,

   Collected every single word from every

         single language, and every 

 ancient runic

      symbol or Egyptian hieroglyphic,

and comprehended them all!

 in all of their complexities!

Words would still fail me, and my feeble attempt to truly voice 

  my undying love 

       for Her.