What you said last night

You pay attention to the cracks in the crevasse, 

to the intention in the innuendo,
and the song in the silence.You wait for the twill in the twilight 

the erotic sense of night time
clocks in
-
as the smoke rolls,
another long pull on the pipe
and the smoke flows
shrouding your face
as the storm grows,

are we biting off

more than we can chew
or are we just fools…
daring to dream another dream
than the ones life chose,

waking up as it seems
we’ve been asleep to

Each other’s presence
until we collided,

Like stars you said,
the magic ignited

A spark in me and you

And a flame was lit

The truth shone

Although not perfect,
We fit perfectly.

For I saw the God in you.
As you saw the God in me.

I can’t help how I feel

And you’re so helpless in it too.

You ask me what’s been on my mind,

And for the past two weeks, it’s been you.

I keep thinking back on last night,

Will it ever happen again?

Do you want me to be next to you?

Can we ever be just friends?

I can sincerely try my best

I’ll promise you that much.

But in the back of my head,

There’s always be an iota of lust

For that one little moment

Where if we could we would’ve

But you know it can’t be you

Because you know I’m keeping it safe,

For a man who’ll love me the way I need

Behold my rightful place.

I’m the shadow in your periphery,

A little bird, I am your friend.

I’m the name you call in your soliloquy

I’m the thirst you never quench.

Cloaked in bad timing,

I’ll stay faithful

Until the end.

But I’ll be living
while I’m waiting for you

If you ever come

To claim what’s left.

Sleepless on the Horizon

Cold cornerstones of this city

Are not a comfortable perch

The wind renders me invisibly disposable

and my heart in its desolation lurks,

waiting around street corners

For the first available turn

to declare its existence

Sleepless on the horizon,

purple, awake insecure.

Scraped bucket bottoms

To catch subway trains

Speeding against the concrete breeze,

Leaving behind specks of urban rapture

I’m running past my feet

Scream into the silence

Where no one listens

As Life bites at my heels

As Life bites at my heels

This world is not my home I know

Despite this I confess

This bruised beating heart needs its hope

In the assurance of eternal rest

Between the parted lips of heaven and hell

the water is so blue

Grant me comfort underneath the stars

A teardrop closer to you

A teardrop closer to you

Nearer my God to Thee

I’ve finally reached the shore

Borne all I could

I paid the price

To leave this body here

To be baptised

in the crimson of the sunset sky

Cleansed until

My tears were dry

No longer

Sleepless

Sing lullabies

Sink safely down to sleep

Sink safely down to sleep

Sleepless on the horizon

Your eyes they search for me.

Your eyes they search for me.

My Name is A Form of Resistance

My name is a form of resistance
Against the anglicanization
and exotification

Of a body and a struggle

You don’t even have the

Syllables

To comprehend.

My name is a form of resistance

Because my mother

Named me for my Homeland.

She named me

to belong

No matter where

my feet would find me.

My name is a form of resistance

Because I was blessed in birth

To embody an oral history
that was kissed to my forehead
like a prayer
joining

Air and Earth
to Flesh and Blood.

My name is a form of resistance
Because it means hope and aspiration

in Sanskrit

across the Crimson scars you have left

on the faces of those

who have tried

to Rise.

My name is a form of resistance so

just because

You cannot pronounce it

Does not give You the right

To dismiss it

Or erase it

And then make me feel like

Suddenly

It doesn’t fit.

Because I respond to my name,

Battle cries,

I take charge in my name.
I am blessed unlike those

Who don’t need a face and story

To ground them to a history they see

Everywhere

I am visible in my name

So no,

I don’t have a nickname.

For I will not shorten

Or adjust even a bit of myself

To fit the capacity

you have

To stomach Me.
And my nine letters

Can spell

more defiance,

more passion,

more fire

than you will ever be able to extinguish.

My name is a form of resistance

because I was named for a purpose.

And like all things that have a purpose,

I will not rest
until mine
on this earth
is fulfilled.

So I will tell my stories,

I will them for they need to be heard,

And I invite pride to come into the hearts

Of those who wait submerged

For my name is a form of resistance.

And in it, I am empowered,

Loud, and clear.

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.

made to love

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z6SGeaQrIU8

hey you,
help me.
peel the lethargy from my body,
reveal strips of unblemished skin
transformed under the pressure,
the heat of experience.
smooth.

you, 
wipe these wounds clean.
please.
wash them out, blow kisses with that 
soft fabric, your fingers
feel like peace to me,
my gashes are closing,
your sweet kisses
sealing them.

stroke my limbs,
ease them down,
draw their length in the pull
of your lips,
contour them
in the movement 
of your hips.

rejuvenate me.

my bones,
my bones remember now
what they're holding up
my frame is clothed,
my shoulders covered,
my legs wrapped,
my arms entangled,
in you.

with the air that
exits,
a wish escapes,
a sigh hits the roof of
my parted mouth,
eyes shut,
still awake,
to hear
to listen to the sounds
of your presence
regardless of the form it takes

i will stay awake for you.
do all or nothing for you,
healed,
i lay afresh,
i've been waiting for this.

with patience,
i've been led out of the abyss,
as you tended to me,
your sustaining touch,
holding that kiss.

navy boy

white hat tucked under your arm
double-breasted coat, 
golden buttons that shine
i never imagined that i'd like 
the stories you'd tell
i never imagined
you'd have something to say
beyond the frequent pauses i'd make
afraid of hogging the conversation
awkwardly sipping my americano
while you stared right into my face
blues eyes with pupils i'd hope
would dilate, so i'd knew like science told me
you were interested in actually staying.

hearing such a different song
from what i'd usually sing
you were happy to talk to me
get to know me
tell me things
remember what i liked and
be what i wanted
at a time when i realised
i could no longer blame myself
for an act i never committed.

long fingers, and your pale hands
wondering why you'd be so brave
trying to reach out to a black beauty
you'd never be able to save
and that's when it hit me
that my thoughts were rotting themselves
fermenting in their sorrow,
i had become someone else.

afraid of the scope of difference
in us that my eyes would recognise, 
they constantly fell
back down to our little table
our cozy little corner
with little pictures on the side.
regardless, the best things happen
when we forget to remind time
that we need that affection
how we're starved and we're so restless.

you're not chunky,
you're fine.
i'm not afraid to touch you.
i'm not afraid to smile
when i find something you say funny,
and when i see you blushing 
are you really this shy,
but my smile turns into questions
for answers 
i hope one day 
you won't have to hide.

a.

jesus christ, has it really been 10 years?
how've you been, it's been so long since
i've heard your voice anywhere else but my head
playing it now and then
brokenrecords
shards of vinyl memories
scattered across the floor
marrying the bits of that horrible vase
your wonderful mother gave us.

how's your little sister? has she grown up
with a mouth on her too, she was such a smart girl
so pretty too, how are you handling all the attention
from all the boys, remember
how we used to laugh at how
we'd have to wait baseball bat
in hand at the door
because you couldn't ever believe
she'd like my advice more
and flaunt it, baby, flaunt it.
there's no use in veiling 
such a beautiful thing, no?

did you ever become a writer?
those poems you'd read out to
me in the mornings
before i'd open my eyes
whispering the words so poignantly
that they'd tangle themselves in my hair
with the scent of you
left in me 
lasting the whole day,
a scent i'd never thought
i'd have to forget until
i'd close my eyes
and find it again.

oh is that your wife?
hi, yes i'm just an old friend
oh you're gorgeous
sorry, it's been years
i'm so overwhelmed
i'm well thank you, and
oh my, is that your..your son?
well, he's certainly got your mischevious 
head of hair,
oh he doesn't have to say hi if he doesn't
want to,
awh well, it's lovely to meet you too.
ah i'm sorry, you look in a hurry
oh wow, so it's true you did become a doctor
that must be an important function for you
i'm happy to hear that!
what are they awarding you for?
gosh, that's wonderful, and
just dropping the little one at the sitter's?

which flat is it?
i could take him,
it's no trouble
i'm looking after kids too now y'know
after...what happened...
we've always wanted children,
it's a good time to spend the evenings
i don't feel as lonely,
he was a good man
and i miss him terribly
but now
i want to just be useful
especially to people that still have the time
to spend with each other
yes, it's a delightful business,
i'm actually expecting a child right now.

312? oh would you look at that,
that's me.

have a good night, we'll be fine.

yes?
i don't know how you could call me beautiful.
i thought you grew numb to my face
a long time ago.
i'm sorry,
it's just been so long,
you look great though.
i missed seeing you smile.
but don't let me keep you,
she's waiting.

have a great night.

ohso

the life of a flier as she lies to the higher
sense of reason as she's tired
waking up in the morning
crack of dawn she's still yawning
but she tumbles out of bed
like her life without warning
decides to expand till it fits
into all the places she's never been
all the places she wants to see
as she's chasing all her dreams
across the seas.

reeling in from the last one,
from the last night
from the last fight
that nobody sees
when he's grinding on someone else
and she thought he'd feel
something for her
like a little emotion never hurt anybody
we all have our scars
we still watch the stars
it's dark out here
and nobody will focus
on your disfigurations when they're
so enamoured by your light.

still no expectations is a tough call
living like a moment's gotta pull through
from a connection everyone thought was magical
but he doesn't seem to know
how when life knocks you down
you get up though, you get up
to see it in her eyes
that she isn't judging you
and you wake up to him
yearning to be forgiven
against the trauma of this world
and the wind couldn't get any colder
as it lashes across her shoulder
without an arm around her
without her personal sun in the winter
it's like a life she never lived
captured in a kodak moment
only good enough for firewood
something to keep her lonely days
warmer, better than nothing at all.
it's happened again.

nauseating to think that the only choices
she's got left is to live a life for herself,
a selfish girl returns selfish to the shelf.
like that's the only safe option,
what a lie in a kiss,
what a lie can be spoken in words that sounded so sweet.

invisible chains

torn between following 
calls of my faith
and the calls of what
today young girls and guys 
frolic in

trying to find a balance
a compromise
between two worlds that
were ironically created to 
share in each other 
but today there is a divide
that stretches across an ocean
right in the cavity of my chest

looking to my right my family
looks up wondering why im
not what they raised me to be
the left, to the left i see my friends
mixed bag of emotions
she's too much for us
stop over thinking
why can't she just let loose

if it's always been about truth
who am i supposed to be truthful to?
don't say to myself
because if i had that choice
i don't know if i'd feel this guilty
i haven't even done anything wrong
i haven't even given anything away

if i go to a counselor
and ask her to sort out my head
should i be asking my father in heaven instead?
or am i just tormented to live with a divide
my whole life
what if i don't agree with him
what if i have to say something i don't think he'll agree with
why am i so chained down by
a force i can't see
why am i so lost in following 
being obligated to 
listen to
something
someone
i haven't even met yet

He's done so much good for me
but why do i feel like breaking away
ruined inside
ruined outside
i'm getting ready to leg it away
hesitating, lunging within my heart
trying to reach for what i want
but seems like i'm on a leash
faith is meant to set you free
but it's relative
convenient to context
sounds good sometimes
sounds like a burden other times

so where is this common ground
can i have common ground
am i allowed to ask for protection
if i don't offer allegiance
is it fair trade if i believe in different things
and i won't agree to a contract
written in somebody else`s blood
long before i was even born

unable to let go
unwanting to be an idol of hypocrisy
and hidden choices
unable to be free
little boxes for me
a dismembered body
and yet,
look at me.
you wouldn't even know.
i look whole.

over my shoulder

in time, i've realised that growing up and becoming more mature are two different things.
in fact, i've seen so many childish adults i used to think this is what was attractive to people as they aged alongside each other. the ability to talk coyly or emphatically put your opinion across, always be laughing and giggly and up for anything. of course, this has nothing to do with how you've really advanced in your pursuit of happiness *winking suggestively*coupled with how wasted you got over the weekend, but check you out, still managed to make it to work monday morning cribbing about the traffic, looking like a star. 

maturity on the other hand, i used to always confuse with nonchalance. but that if anything is absolutely not what it is. to be mature is to be able to let go; dealing with the truth no matter how hard it is. like the times when a conversation is dying and you really don't have the time or need to drag it out longer, to know when a person is pensive and wishes to enjoy the presence of your company rather than the echo of your words, to know when an event occurs that it will pass and that we constantly go through this cycle of regeneration, playing back things that really don't and will never change. 

we can barely keep up with ourselves as we get lost in our feelings and thoughts. and then, like a wisp of smoke, the fourth cigarette i really didn't need to have vanishes, taking with it the fleeting exhilaration it brought  and as soon as it came, i need another tug at the fancy cinnamon stick. i ponder on times when our words flow out our throats unceasingly, never stopping, so excited to enjoy and describe the grandeur of that passing second of fame and utter bliss. and then 3 months down the line, that second is almost worth a penny, collected in a rusty old tin that gets scrimmaged in once in a while, important enough for taxi money at the least.

if i were the adult i'd want to be, and i'm not there yet, but if i were...i would look at each moment like it was going to pass. and that way i could enjoy it for the 5 seconds that it lasted. i could watch it disappear with content, knowing that if i sat pretty enough, another one would pass me by too filling in the void, soothing my anxious trembling to be occupied in mind and satisfied in soul.

honestly, these years between broad waistlines and meagre paychecks, i want to be able to really pick and choose my colours. character is built and not granted. i want to be able to grow up with elegance, and humility. maturity is something i hope God gives me the grace to pursue, because it really is an effort to be confident enough to correct ourselves, our old ways, manners of speech, fears. i realise we have always had the answers clenched up so tightly in our fists, but often lacked the courage necessary to untangle our intentions from our insecurities, to raise our hands up straight and clean, and ask the question anyway, "ma'am, will it all be over soon?"

truth is it never finishes. we either grow bitter or we get better. at ourselves, or the whole world; we all end up wanting more. how different would it be if we knew we were going to get where we needed to go anyway, we just had to work at lasting through the seconds, the minutes, the days, the weeks until finally...we can look back in months and years and know, we did the best we could with what we had.