Neglect

How do I beg you to want me? Why must i pull your time like grasping the loose strands of hair from my face; barely tangible and with no satisfaction.

How do you see all I am and not sing for me, but you you listen to every song but mine. As close as you make me I am worlds apart and your heart doesn’t quake for moments at all. Just a hi there or a bye there each one more stab to my heart.

What do you have left when time and time again you forget how to heal from the neglect. It reaffirms every fear, that my time is not your time, and your time is when you can fit me in your schedule.

How do you look at me and see in my eyes the reflection of all your wonder and not chose me first. Why are there pedestals i cannot stand on, rooftops i cannot reach, parts of you i may only access when you can fit me in.

How do you heal a heart that’s starving from chronic neglect when you are both the food and its restriction.

How long will i fast until my cells and wells have been emptied and rest is easier than starving.

How close am i to rest.

 

That’s all for now,

08/09/2018

wisdom from 23

love you to the moon and back

Okay, Shalom.

my big sister turned 23 today! i miss her dearly, and because she’s very busy being an almost doctor and writer and all around bad ass, i’d like to share some lessons she’s taught me with you. more specifically, lessons that have been applicable to the last week of my life – what a trip, honestly. here we go!

1. things fall apart, but you do not. bend, fracture, but do not fall apart.
2. a good thing is not always the good thing for you.
3. misconstrued relationships hurt more than you think they will, just because you’ve thought about them in a way that they are actually not. it sucks, but issokay.
4. loving someone sometimes is not enough.
5.  if you get heartbroken, there’s an ice cream and sweaty dance fix for that.
6. the people who you choose to share your truth with aren’t people you choose lightly. more often than not…

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Garden ft. SZA

I don’t know how to do it anymore. Perhaps it’s the “A” type personality or my directness or my global impatience for fruition to come, but whatever it is I can’t.

A time too many there have been real people. But no. I only see you. In the midst of attention from those I should want, I only seek yours.

And it’s late now. Because I don’t play well, neither cat nor mouse and I don’t want to play. I want to be your golden goose; I want to shave my legs for you.

And I want it all. And I think I see what you see. But you don’t see.

I know you’d rather be laid up with a big booty. Hoping I’ll never find out that you’re anyone else.

Hoping that it will go away, now.

 

 

Chaperones

“Do you know of melancholy?” Someone once asked me.

“Sure.”  I replied

I continued:

“He used to be my constant companion and my chaperone. The world didn’t trust that I could wonder life unaccompanied. Sometimes he leaves me be, to walk and discover new things. But I was always to remain in his line of sight. He was ever ready to reaffirm his presence.

Other times he wrestles with my other caretaker, peace. Whichever one wins usually gets to be with me for a while. Both have learnt recently, that through time and perseverance, I found the capability to walk without either. Both brought their own audiences and I rather liked invisibility.

So now, I see both once in a while when they are needed. Most of my time is spent with contentment these days- albeit at a comfortable distance.”

“So do I know melancholy, you ask?”

“I know him intimately.”

That’s all for now             14/10/2016

A time for poetry

Eleutheromania- an intense, irresistible desire for freedom.

When I see my people chained from within themselves and how the world chains them outwardly

When I feel society’s pressures pushing on me, reducing my volume of being to less and less finite authenticity

Psithurism- the sound of air through the trees

As I see the hand of God in every living thing

The tune, satisfying. Reassuring.

I appreciate

Brumous- describing grey skies and winter days

The ones where it’s cold enough to huddle in warm linen and reminisce

Or those when the shiver through thin thread-material chills your spirit

 And how I look up wondering if the sky feels melancholy at all.

Elmosolyodni- break into a genuine smile when overcome by emotion

Apparently, that is my purpose in life.

I’m eager to fulfil.

Vemod- A tender sadness or passive melancholy that something emotional, significant will never be back

Like how I mourn for you in sighs and lost looks because time should have healed me

Or the shallow heart pangs that follow when feelings die.

Perhaps, just missing it irretrievably. Like how eggs cannot be separated from batter, yet we manage so far removed.

Unveilings of final goodbyes.

Sphallolalia- flirting that leads nowhere

The kind I could teach. Intentionally so. Quickly a speciality. Only with those unknown.

There is nothing to lose or gain here. You can’t play with fire when you are fire. Only burn. Never douse.

And the energy is conserved.

Drapetomania- an overwhelming urge to run away

When I slip up and say too much.

And exposure is inevitable.

Vulnerability at its peak.

And my entirety disarmed.

In every word, poetry is told. The writer drained.

It’s a form of poetic justice for the reader, who is continually served emotion. A slight feel of agastopia.

There is always time for poetry. Always another word that used to braid the tapestry of tale.

That’s all for now             14/10/2016

Daily Prompt: Careful

via Daily Prompt: Careful

Tread now with caution

As you light the air with thunder of stunt grenades

As the mist of tear gas falls into the lungs of the pillars of the future

As you incarcerate the men and women philosophers who dared to threaten the status quo.

Tread now with caution

In your approach to pick up pistol against the cross

In the line-up of militarized fathers who face their children

In the way your revolutionary blood, since cooled from 1967 now burns hot with the wrong coals.

Tread now with caution

As you see hear the cries and voices of a generation

As your nieces and nephews throw stones about a broken system

As our greyed leaders watch the country burn.

Tread carefully and question your heart and mind. Where do you lie? What will be your fight?

How will you write the history of the generation of the “born-free’s”? In the blood stained ink of black students lives, or with the sweat of a country that moved with one voice?

That’s all for now. 11/10/2016

This is how you lose her

Speaks brightly- She is animated.

Her eyes hold that sparkle when addressing you.

Overlooked. Silly little girl.

She sells your character like an advertisement to the masses.

Praises sung loud.

Question.

And her?

“She’s okay,” you reply

Your burden is twice her own, carrying your baggage as load on her eyelashes.

She won’t blink.

“It’s not that big a deal.” you say.

In sights and fleeting touches, breaths, words and heartbeats, adoration is the tune.

Declared over and over.

You only reply: “I Love you”

this is how you lose her

That’s all for now. 11/10/2016

Our men don’t belong

I read this piece of writing by Warsan Shire. She tells a black tale, soiled by her experiences and makes it beautiful.

She is a intriguing artist who creates shocking and illusive picture of a world so disjointed and far off, that it’s relatable. So i picked out a few of my favourites.

What We Own

Our men do not belong to us.

Even my own father left one afternoon, is not mine.

Is that what we’re here for?To sit at kitchen tables, counting on our fingers the ones who died, those who left, and the others who were taken by the police, or by drugs or by illness or by other women?

It’s this notion that it’s expected. Especially from the writers’ perspective as a black african (Somali) woman who lived directly and indirectly in war- war within people, war within genders, war within a people, a war within a being.

Ugly

Your daughter is ugly.She knows loss intimately, carries whole cities in her belly.

You made her gargle rosewater and, while she coughed, said macaanto girls like you shouldn’t smell of lonely or empty

What man wants to lay down and watch the world burn in his bedroom? Your daughter’s face is a small riot, her hands are a civil war, a refugee camp behind each ear, a body littered with ugly things,

but God, doesn’t she wear the world well.

Her ugly, isn’t physicality. The men see her, they call her ‘macaanto’, sweetie, baby, my size. Her ugly far surpasses fine tuned features. It’s the depth of the darkness that pressed into her eyes, her every expression. It’s the burden of too much she has seen that leaves a bitter taste in her smile. It’s how radiance is replaced by constant lonely dark. but God, doesn’t she wear the world well. Because in all this, she is beautiful and in that, she is redeemed. If only it were that easy for those of us that wear both words like a second skin.

Conversations about Home (at the Deportation Center)

No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark. I’ve been carrying the old anthem in my mouth for so long that there’s no space for another song, another tongue, or another language. I know a shame that shrouds, totally engulfs. I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel. I’m bloated with language I can’t afford to forget.

Chemistry

I wear my loneliness like a taffeta dress riding up my thigh, and you cannot help but want me. You think it’s cruel how I break your heart, to write a poem. I think it’s alchemy.

Of how we’re attracted to broken things with the slight hope that the pieces can be realigned.

For the moment, this is my muse.

10/05/2016

That’s all for now

 

Scarlet Death

Sometimes something bleeds through.

Even when dressed with countless bandages, this chronic wound seeps at the edges.

The redness covered

the surface cleaned

the site inflamed.

But sometimes, it still bleeds through.

The dressing is impeccable

but it still bleeds through

You opt for a clotting factor; this blood must congeal.

This wound still concealed.

It stops the bleeding at the wound…and a clot stops your heart.

You die of a pulmonary embolism

in a vain attempt

to hide something

that begged for attention.

10/05/2016

That’s all for now