i can't fuck up

this post is titled 'i cant fuck up'
because "fucking up" is colossal
increasingly irreparable, you become irredeemable,
your damage becomes a mess somebody else has to wipe up,
and that's not cool.

you see, the point i'm at in life
is where my first pay cheques came in right next to the pieces of paper that
claimed payment for the costs of my existence on this earth
tuition, phone bill, books, health insurance, transport,
i started to pay my way through,
so much so i started to feel ashamed when 
the hands of my mother and father had to come bail me out again,
hands that had so far cleaned up my mess, wiped my scraped knees, 
and cuddled my 6 year old frame.
hands that tell so many stories 

you're always happy to help, but
you can't cheat the way age, stress, unhappiness
has carved its way into the lines in your face,
or how they have all carved their initials into
each mile that separates us.
you're not so happy when i don't try though,
when i don't think things through,
when i make costly mistakes i probably could've avoided.

see mom and dad, when you're mad
i don't even need to look at your faces, 
i just need to look at your hands.
your hands flailing around, 
your hands slicing the air, 
your hands poking invisible chests, 
your hands shaking shoulders that don't exist. 
your hands become fists, of frustration desperation
wrinkles that come early, lines of deliberation 
within whose spaces i colour in little moments of 
absolute question 
at the situation 
you are in, 
why am i here, lord? 
why do i have to deal with this?

but when you look around
and you realise that no one else cares, 
no one else will listen or be responsible
for a life that is not theirs, 
you wake up and shake the doubt right off,
you can't fuck up... otherwise all is lost.

so you hold your head up high and you polish my shoes, 
you iron my school uniform and you prepare my food. 
you teach me how to never be in someone else's way, 
never to be a liability or an obligation,
and to always be welcome wherever i stay.

you help me spell the word responsible, and teach me most of all, 
that the expensive life you have so carefully tried to protect for me, 
is always and has always been my own. 
there's careless and then there's carefree 
and me stuck between the two. 
trying to find the balance between having a stick up your arse 
and choosing to have nothing to do. 

i'm too aware to waste away my days, 
i'm too wide awake at night. 
i cant sleep i toss and i turn,
because i know i need to fight. 
i need to invest in my own life, 
and never forget my parents' sacrifices. 

no matter how disillusioned i get, 
please let me never forget where i come from. 

i can't fuck up, because i don't want to. 

i can take care of myself that much.

Help yourself

The best help is self-help. Now I don't know whether that's a cliche or not, but I genuinely believe we undermine the power of taking our own advice.

All too often, I have fallen into a spiral of self-accusation, blaming my unhappiness on the most mundane tiny incidents, allowing a small situation to have a larger-than-life effect. If someone asked me how my day was, the answer would always be, "I'm tired" or "It was tiring". In fact, I can't remember the last time I got up in the morning to bless my day. To look up to myself and say, "You are a winner, you got this." We spend so much time criticizing ourselves that we forget how important appreciating ourselves is. 

So much good can come if we begin positively. Instead of whining, be thankful. Someone definitely has it worse than you. Your problem can be fixed. YOU are fixable. Put a brave face on. Listen to uplifting music. Allow yourself to enjoy your life. Free yourself from being solely focused on the little black dot in a large white space. 

Listen to yourself. Actually, record yourself talking. Do you sound negative and tired all the time? Are you complaining more than you are complimenting? Are you being bitter when you think you are being practical or realistic? Are you sounding optimistic? Do you think you sound happy? These are important questions. They define the way you come across when other people hear you speak. The words that come out of your mouth are a reflection of what you feel inside. If you master up the courage and motivation to fix your problems, you will sound brave and hopeful and inspirational. Even to someone else who could be needing a little push themselves.

Why is it that we never listen to our own advice? Not listen to, failing to compliment and always complain about yourself and your life is exactly the opposite of the steps we need to take. To have a healthy life, a good life, you need to pay attention to who you are. You can only do that once you give yourself credit for existing, for being a real human-being with feelings and emotions and ambitions and ANSWERS.

So stop selling yourself short. You have an infinite amount of hope available unto you. Mine away against the core of your distress. You have the strength of character, I know you do because to have a strong character you have to make it first. The first step is always a step. An action. A move forward. A breaking of stagnant thought and mind and body.

Listen to yourself. Give yourself advice. Lay the bricks to the foundation of your character. Build your own house. Because that way, you will give no one else the power to knock you down. Do not undermine who you are and what you are capable of. 

I believe in the power of human perseverance. It all starts with you taking the first step. I'm ready now, are you?

Begin.

Begin. Just begin.

Talk freely of wounds that lay cold beneath the callouses of your heart and the moral fibre that strings you together awkwardly.

Honestly, there’s no therapy like my own I guess. I will write to try and make sense of what is in front of me. Write to elate, write to reveal. Write to feel, to no longer conceal. Write to elate, write to relieve. Write when I contemplate, so nothing is lost to the air.

I was thinking about my family yesterday…am I myself with them? Am I completely free in their presence? Do I say what’s truly on my heart or mind? Or do I just hold back, and bottle it down? Why am I not open with them? Because they see my faults maybe. I can’t hide my iniquities from them. I am so imperfect. So imperfect that I don’t bother trying to change their perception of me because I honestly wouldn't know where to start. Actually that’s a lie. I know where to start, I just don’t want to start. Laziness, hesitating with ancient angst I guess. I think our family can only be functional if we don’t really say what’s on our mind. Because if we really said what was on each other’s minds it may be too much to take. I don’t think we can deal with each other’s true feelings. It’s always the wrong time. Everyone’s always hurting, or recovering.  We talk behind each other’s back. We restrain ourselves from each other for the fear of being misunderstood or being understood perfectly.

I suppose no one’s sane all the time. I don’t trust the mental state of the members of my family. One time they can take it, and other times they can’t. One time they’ll be willing to listen and the other times, they really don’t want to. I know my faults. I know what they could throw at me. I am too ashamed of myself to fight back to correct the truth. The truth is the truth. What’s the secret of a happy family life?

I think it starts with each of the family members being at their happiest. Finding their own happiness. It always comes back to oneself. Are you happy where you are? Are you happy with who you are? Do you believe you are doing the best you can to be the best you can be? If the answers to these are yes,  I think we would rarely have problems with each other. We would cleanse our own souls, purge ourselves. To be worthy of the unconditional love that comes with loving members of our family.

Where does selflessness come from? Maybe it comes from the confidence that you are doing all you can to make sure you are taken care of. Now you wish to change to focus from looking inside to looking outside, and nursing the rest of the world. Does selflessness come at the cost of your soul? I don’t think so. If you are doing your best to be the best you are, then you have the space to fight for someone else. Because you are equipped with an undeniable and unbreakable confidence. No one can point a finger in your direction, because you have your back covered.

I want to be strong for you. I want to feel for you. I want to give you the best parts of me. You deserve the best parts of me. We can work this out together right? Please don’t be too tired to listen. Please don’t be too hurt to go on. Tell me that I can have an honest place here.

Where do I start?

It’ll be alright in the end,

If I just

Begin.

not a hybrid.

just when i thought something was finally going right, that i was figuring something out to get a little closer to what i wanted to do with my life, the clock stopped. i don't know if i can stick to my perfectly manicured plan. right now with school, i can see only two classes where i really feel the time i spend is returned with decent grades.

sometimes the stress i deal with is standard. i feel like everyone's being challenged and i shouldn't complain, just get better at what i do. i don't  know whether i'm justified when i realize i'm not cut out for something. i feel like going into law maybe the right thing after all. and then i get worried, because maybe i like it only because it hasn't bored me yet.

the lack of motivation, the loss of motivation that i've been feeling lately is so worrying. there are days when i've had things planned to do, things that i have needed to get done so i can take it easier later on, so i can comfortably meet my deadlines. i don't do anything those days. i just wile away my time, because even the thought of starting these papers, writing these long essays freaks me out. i doubt every word i type. i criticize the substance of my thoughts even before i complete my sentences.

maybe that's why i never finish my sentences. like a cold gust of air, rushing through you in between the holes that form between your arms and your sleeves, the warmth of my body fades with every millimeter of skin that curls in antagonism toward the creeping feeling that i'm going the wrong way. i'm saying the wrong thing.

it's so easy to make excuses. but one day you run out of time. and you end up feeling so hollow inside. you question how good you are at everything, and your fatigue you cannot hide. you've become a danger to your ability to live and thrive. scraping the end of the bucket, it feels like i could have definitely done better.

relief. relief, so much of it i need. how much i deserve? this don't ask me.

eight days to 20

I am so scared. 
So afraid of failure, 
of obesity, 
of someone looking at me 
in repulse and disgust, 
mortified to find 
the blemishes on my skin
and even more repelled 
by the open sores 
of my heart.

I'm afraid of being misunderstood,
understood perfectly, 
being laughed at for being 
eccentrically extraordinary, 
and at the same time in my hovering frame, 
traditional values are the bones
that make me, I'm afraid of being boring
and old-fashioned. 
I'm afraid of that rancid undertone in your voice,
laced with scorn,
when you say, "It's okay, I understand. 
You don't have to if you don't want to."

Sometimes I wish I could skip out 
on parts of life altogether;
much like an acne-scarred, 
buck-toothed, 
fat, 
bulimic, 
awkward 
tall girl 
wishes 
she could skip out on high school. 

But where is the fun in that? 
Relief is only momentary, 
temporary 
and solitary in such things, 
and 20?

20 is coming my way.
Whether I like it or not.

Unnamed

The new world is poison
And you are an old soul
You've been tainted by its colours
You've been victim to its wounds.

Now you want to understand it,
Change it for the better
But you sit there naked in your letters,
Writing home in your worst.

Give me boxes, keep my stories
And let the bells of London toll,
I'm on the slave ship that sails asunder
I'm the stain upon its gold.