Category Archives: creative writing

A Lay with the Violet Rose



A Lay with the Violet Rose

I wonder what became of the girl who once said she believed in me.
Is she still meandering about the earth with her delicate feet, white as snow and tender as lavender?
Her wide eyes still captivate my psyche, along with that petite body that so elegantly steals the hearts of men who dare gaze upon it whilst glaring in awe as she lies down in translucent garments atop a lofty sheep-fur-covered sofa like the white Queen of Sheba that she is.
I doubt she ever bore love for me, nor any sentiment of good feeling other than that of admiration for my talents in the art of crafting words, melodies, and thought into one unified element;
Though she did have an exceptional affinity that gravitated towards my cock.
She loved it. And in return for her love of it I gave it to her. And she loved it. So much so that her tight pale perky little ass swelled up after the endless pounding of my pulsating, blood-engorged, steel-hard cock that endured so long a thrusting it shot out my love juice almost as vehemently as dragonfire.
The fluids emitted all over her buttocks and violet dress, which was partially covering the rest of her back. I carried on slathering my slowly receding phallus along the curves of her ass and thighs as she lied on her stomach along the bed.
She carried on with the heavy breathing, in awe and in bliss of the obscurely gratifying sodomy.
I then seized the suckling of her breasts and neck with my tongue and swiftly rose up from the bed.
None of us spoke; and nothing was said.
We both got what we wanted, and despite the ecstasy wrought upon her by the beast of her wildest and most inconceivably deepest fantasies, she still didn’t love me.
I was fine with that.
But before I left, and that would be the last goodbye, she told me, and in stressed expressions, that she believed in me and my art and though we may or may not ever cross paths again that she’ll surely feel me through the work I do and will never cease to seek inspiration from it, be it in the open or private.
And that’s all I really have to say about her.

by Mensur Gjonbalaj

March 12, 2015


How I Make My Music – A Poem by The King of Pop

Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson

Today I’d like to share a poem by the late and beloved King of Pop, Michael Jackson. His music will live forever and he will go on being the greatest entertainer of all time.

How I Make My Music

People ask me how I make music. I tell them I
just step into it.It’s like stepping into a river and
joining the flow. Every moment in the river has
it’s song. So I stay in the moment and listen.
What I hear is never the same. A walk
through the woods brings a light, crackling
song:Leaves rustle in the wind, birds chatter and
Squirrels scold, twigs crunch underfoot, and
the beat of my heart holds it all together. When
you join the flow, the music is inside and outside,
and both are the same. As long as I can listen to
the moment, I’ll always have music.

by Michael Jackson



From my cries heaven bent;
They heard a plea from me again.
The gentle noise goes on beeping,
Yet my dormant thoughts are still sleeping.
Just like a lake they do not flow,
Instead they lie there uselessly
for reasons I do not know.

The silence I can no longer stand.
My mind’s abandoned my old hand.
What has become of the wide-eyed observer?
He seems possessed by some usurper.
Who’s sold his love for a sack of gold,
Believing only then will life unfold.

Indeed, his love’s a diamond in the rough;
So don’t give up, stand up, be tough!
Surly the silence will maintain
so long as stagnant you remain.
It is the pen that you must seek
to write the thoughts that make you weak.

Your weary mind needs no shelter:
it needs to free itself and skelter.
Only then will the passion burn
and drift the wind as pages turn.
The heart goes on beating,
though time is ever fleeting.
Words have no meaning without silence
When thoughts break-on out in violence.

But since my words are heaven-sent
their intent is all but violent.
On the wings of angels they shall fly
On the canvas of a rain-drenched sky
To the earth they’ll surely cry:
Until it’s written may he not die.
And if our prayers answer naught,
then in hell shall it be wrought.

Mensur Gjonbalaj
October 9, 2014

Reign of (T)error

You Consume Their Terror

You Consume Their Terror

Reign of (T)error

No inspiration …
No sensation …
No abrogation …
No respiration …

The agony of tyranny
is the genesis of mutiny.

Prohibit to liberate –
Terminate to emancipate.

Violate the violator
of the established proprietor
And prosecute the dissenter
of the censurer.

The lunatics are free to roam
So long as they don’t roam alone.

Those who roam alone
are nothing but lunatics
on a spree of dissention
in a society void of heretics.

No room for difference
in a world indifferent
to the existential reality
of man and the calamity
of plague-stricken minds
Barren of any form of sanity.

“It’s a reign of terror,”
they say.
Ignorant of the actuality
of our decay.
Meditated upon the grounds
of conformity.

What they say isn’t any more than hearsay;
A world reigned by error
and fermented through terror
In an era dwelling in madness.
Therein lies our epoch of sadness.

Try Not to Cry




Try Not to Cry

You, you’re not aware
That we’re aware
Of your despair
Don’t show your tears
To your oppressor
Don’t show your tears

Try not to cry little one
You’re not alone
I’ll stand by you
Try not to cry little one
My heart is your stone
I’ll throw with you

‘Ayn Jalut where David slew Goliath
This very same place that we be at
Passing through the sands of times
This land’s been the victim of countless crimes
From Crusaders and Mongols
to the present aggression
Then the Franks, now even a crueller oppression
If these walls could speak,
imagine what would they say

For me in this path that I walk on
there’s only one way
Bullets may kill, bones may break
Still I throw stones like David before me and I say

You, you’re not aware
That we’re aware
Of your despair
Your nightmares will end
This I promise, I promise

Don’t cry, don’t lose faith
The one who made water come out of the sand
Is the one who quenches the thirst
And you who rise proud from between the stones
Have made oceans from this dust

I throw stones at my eyes
’cause for way too long they’ve been dry
Plus they see what they shouldn’t from oppressed babies to thighs
I throw stones at my tongue
’cause it should really keep its peace
I throw stones at my feet
’cause they stray and lead to defeat
A couple of big ones at my heart
’cause the thing is freezing cold
But my nafs is still alive
and kicking unstoppable and on a roll
I throw bricks at the devil so I’ll be sure to hit him
But first at the man in the mirror
so I can chase out the venom

Hmm, a little boy shot in the head
Just another kid sent out to get some bread
Not the first murder nor the last
Again and again a repetition of the past
Since the very first day same story
Young ones, old ones, some glory
How can it be, has the whole world turned blind?
Or is it just ’cause it’s only affecting my kind?!
If these walls could speak,
imagine what would they say
For me in this path that I walk on
there’s only one way
Bullets may kill, bones may break
Still I throw stones like David before me and I say


July 16, 2014

The Knight and The Maiden


The Knight and The Maiden

There once was a knight
Who fought a brave fight.
He rode into battle,
Slaying his enemy
like cattle;
Capturing many a riffraff,
Beheading men of his own staff.
The knight rode up the hill
Seeking more than a thrill.
Upon its zenith
Found he his Gwyneth.
A maiden so young and fair,
Branded in Lion’s hair.
He asked for a kiss,
Fearing not amiss.
For she was a maid
of his Liège-lord –
An enemy no man
Could bare to afford.
Forewarned by his squire
That this act of treason
Would be a consequent 
most dire,
The knight made no haste;
And with not a moment to waste
Blew a peck upon her face.
Her cheeked blushed red as a rose
Whilst his squire’s expression froze:
What now are you to do, m’lord?
He replied, ‘to have taken love
as my reward.’
So hopped the young beauty
Upon her Knight’s mare, duly.
Galloping away entwined by love,
Enamored with grace by the Lord above.


by Mensur Gjonbalaj

July 7, 2014

Ergo et Brevis


Ergo et Brevis

So had it been written
For the planets to orbit
The great big star;
Celestial nucleus,
Mother of our mother,
The good earth.
Verde in its peace,
Azure in its radiance.
Seven skies grating the other,
Beholding unknown truths
Which we seek endlessly,
Mayhap, shall never know.
The morning sun bears us the light to carry through the day,
Whilst the midnight moon consoles our fears of the benighted
In the absence of our illuminated star’s crepuscular hindrance.
But as the night befalls us,
The sun also rises.


by Mensur Gjonbalaj

July 2, 2014