Author: Daniel Ali

By Daniel Ali

I have relinquished this godforsaken title as a poet,
I am merely communicating. Matching and pairing
words in a line, one to follow the other and form a
sequence of words.
I understand them to be known as sentences.

I write with my soddened quill
It trails with the Inks of thought.

Undo my words and split them in –
two sounds if you must, speak them,
hear them but take them as they are.

My mind cannot help but analyse, it cannot stop
from poeticising the world as I see it. I see sound
in colours, I can smell a feeling and I can hear a
smell!

Disgusting. This insatiable need to
metamorphosise undressed existence into something
worth reading, but why is it not worth reading
as it is?

Find me on the corner of a street, sat on a bus or walking through my hometown.

Watch me stop; only for a few seconds.

Observe me looking at a flower,
see how my fingers caress its petals.

I notice a thorn and walk away.

Featured Image: Clark Young

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.