A Poem About The World This poem, 'the leader of the free world' is a collection of my thoughts on the world of politics. It's also my first attempt at an iambic pentameter structure! The Free
Poems About Being 'Black'. A few weeks ago, I felt the urge to write something in my notepad. The words that dropped in my head were, "when in doubt, blame the black man". Not thinking much of it, I
a poem about relationships How do you want the stars, the moon, the clouds, and everything I own? I will give you my heart, my soul, my life, and everything I know. Just to know that you'll
Recently, I've been wondering whether everything negative we read or watch about the US is a testament to its true colours or simply a blip in its continued dominance on the world stage. My poem
So he had a ghostwriter? What's next? A freaking ghostliver? While you're at it, add to that a ghosteater. A ghostsleeper. A
A Metaphorical Poem About Life And...it's here. A future. Agile? I was not enough to be. Black in it's entirety. A new beginning and a new me. Clockwork. As though a plan hatched by some supreme
Workshop @ University of Oxford School of Geography and the Environment Friday, 9th November 2018 1. Poem: Yousif M. Qasmiyeh Audio Refugees are dialectical beings. Only refugees can forever
I want a beautiful ring from you. With rare stones and diamond encrusted too. Are flowers too much to ask? Or maybe just chocolates, 'cos I might be moving too
Any documentation of my Ph.D. journey that doesn't include the struggle with trains between Leeds and Huddersfield would be grossly uncharacteristic. Even though such an announcement rarely
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A Short Story about My First Experience of the NHS Minor Injuries Unit. Lost in the fog. That's how I felt with each breath of this substance. I was told that after a few intakes, it would relax me.
Tottering. Tottering. Tottering on the brink of illiteracy, was a man once known, for his intellectual proficiency. For brilliant no more he was, as those days were long
Plant effortlessly emerging from the sweltering tarmac beneath my feet*. *Am I trying too hard with this caption? Sorcery. On my walk home one day, I see a small plant before me. Its
"Thank you for loving me... A series of monologues. Just the way I am. You don't need to thank me. I do though. In all my hardness, and excessiveness, you have accepted me. And made me
Stories Currently, I'm reading chapter 8 in The Ethnographic I. It constantly astounds me how well the book is structured. How is it that someone can write a textbook using conversations in a
In the darkest of rooms, that's all I'm left with. Memories of you slowly fading with each day. In the brightest afternoons, I'm shielded by these wine tinted curtains. Left to wonder;