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.

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.

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.

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.

thank you mr skype

today you asked me whether you could speak to your son.
i'm not even your wife.
you're not even my husband.
but i won't get involved.

take me back, to when we would laugh as the kid
walked out the door, in search of mom
who had left to look after her ailing father.
once, twice, thrice a month.
but we're okay.
because you took care of us,
we laughed at the kid.
who thought she was so far away
that she was in australia.
his "australian mama".

fast forward it a couple of years.
the faithful husband feels like the faithful extra.
the wound deepens as the money gets stuck
like a bone in his throat,
piercing through every time he speaks.
he rasps and cuts
with words in between his teeth.

one day,
she says i don't know what to believe,
he'll sell me for money,
he'll sell me real cheap.
so back we go, scarborough fair moved from down the road,
it's a live auction,
for what cannot be bought with gold.

i remember you washing toilets,
cooking lentils over a tiny stove,
your huge frame hovering over us,
making us eat, so you could watch us grow.
polishing our shoes till our faces shone in them,
brushing my hair, so the whole world could see
my face.

then i remember you defeated. pulling that knot of silk away from your neck,
a marks and spencers man, walking in shoes,
that previously we'd have to sell our souls to afford.
you'd sit down and simultaneously, a hand would extend,
the tv zaps on,
and you move from one world onto the next.

you never picked up a brush again,
and you certainly never scared me.
you got old,
and weary. and i could not give you anymore happiness
than a stamp of that A on a piece of paper you never had.
but i had other plans.
see i wanted to see the world, beyond the two extremes i had known.
i wanted to fly away like her,
and i want to feel what some feel,
when they discover they were made for more,
than living the stationary life between the strings of newton's cradle.
i was suffocating,
under your silence,
and yet you were unable
to snap out of your trance,
between the western unions,
and the local masters,
you tried to brave the whip,
but the lashes came.
bottle to your lips,
the lashes fade.
we remained,
we remain.

today you asked me whether you could speak to your son.
it'd been so long since i heard you.
i don't wear shoes that need shining,
my hair is always in my eyes,
my heart is hurting.
but of course, you can speak to him.
please, please, just don't ever ask,
me that again.
my friend,
my light,
my strength.

in the morning when i wake.

i'm willing to wait,

wait for love.

i realise the curves of my body

don't match the curves of my mind.

i realise the strength of my conviction

doesn't amount to the time,

or dedication and commitment

he'd deserve.

not yet at least,

i don't to keep anything in reserve.

i want to be able to pull it out,

like a love letter on a bridge,

handing it to you,

with all of me within

it.

i want to be stronger than i am now,

to know that not every moment is special.

moments happen, but there are some only that are special,

some only that stand out.

i want to be able to appreciate them,

without trying to sap them of their magic.

i want to be able to wait,

wait for someone to press play again.

i want to be able to be okay with waiting.

right now,

my impatient young blood

still has a lot to learn.

i need to be a little less kind with my time.

i won't ever get these years back.

i want to lose myself in trying to 

discover all the hidden parts of me,

scattered all across this city.

i want to say with confidence,

i love you.

not to the silhouette of a man against a wall,

a paper curtain reflecting the sincerity of the moment.

no no, i want to be able to say that to myself.

so one day when i look back
9 months heavy,

9 months thin,

i'll be stretched over the depth of those memories.

i'll tell my kid i lived to see myself grow up.

how many adults do you know that can say that?
how many adults remember when they grew up?

that's the thing.

i want to be older, wiser, calmer, better.

but i don't want to be bitter, lonesome, jealous and hurt.

i want to say that i gave myself the time i needed

to grow into a relationship, mamahood, and that 9 to 5 job.

i want to be happy whether i'm average or super-sized,

i want to be happy where i am.

right now,

i'm too discontent.

i can't stay in the same place for too long.

so i'll move, like a vagabond with a secret,

i'm journeying far beyond all my years, and yet

i'm standing awkardly, two feet curving into the

pull of those broad shoulders, those scarred knees.

i'm here, i'm taking myself along with me, on this road i'm on.

i made a promise not to be deserted a long time ago.

but what about the promise not to desert yourself?

what about the time you need to give yourself?

to wait,

to be willing to wait,
for love.

This is not psychology

I think time was contracted to run faster as we got older. Or maybe we just got busier, we got heavier, we got slower.

Every day seems to move at a different pace bringing me new things every moment.

Every year seems to whitewash the last, a whole year of inescapable bubbles I found myself in, is pushed to the back of the shelf. Further and further till I have forgotten what those feelings were like.

The people that were a part of my life, the music that filled in the spaces when silence was nowhere around to quieten down the restlessness of a childhood passed from hand to hand.

I’m afraid that as we move into our futures, we lose our chances when we quarrel, when we slur against each other, when we are separated. When we are hurt, we start turning away from the world, we start turning our backs on our parents, and our siblings and we choose to forget them. We forget to take them along to share in our moments.

I know there are some things I need to experience for myself and I will, gladly. Space is something we all crave but at the same time, as easy as we demand it, that’s how quickly we want it to disappear. We try and wish it away, but we still feel cornered by what we have asked for.

I’m afraid that when I look into the future, I won’t see the people I love because I would have forgotten to love them. I would have just gotten angrier and angrier that they couldn’t understand me, how I grew and why I turned out to be the way I am. I forget that I didn’t give them the time of day, I didn’t let them care about me because when they tried, I didn’t explain. I didn’t want to take the effort with them. Instead, I wasted my time with strangers and people that took me for granted. I chose to tell them when they couldn’t care less about me or what would happen to me.

I told them anyway. Because telling them was easier, facing them felt lighter and talking to them, reaching out to them I did quicker than searching for the caring in my own blood.

I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to be detached. We all have to move on. But we don’t have to forget. I want to learn from them as much as I can. I don’t want to have to regret that I wouldn’t know what they’d say or how they’d feel. They are not my enemies. These are people that had lives before I happened. These are people that made plenty of their own mistakes. These are people that tried to be right and sacrificed who they were for me, so I could grow.

Who shut up, so I could rant. Who got hurt, so I didn’t have to.

But I did, I still did. Even after you stood to try and protect me, you didn’t protect me from yourself. I didn’t think it would occur to you how important you were. But now you do, you are what I know of love, sacrifice, pain, and strength.

another day in paradise

"it's a wonderful wonderful life"
i am washed over again,

black and blue seeps away from my skin,

the nib drawing away the ink from its pot.

let the words appear on some other page,

let me read it, let me see it somewhere else.

how we survive,

"no need to run and hide"

i see it all again.

moments slip into the shadows,

i clock my time, in and out,

of this conscious living,

sustained by faith alone.

sometimes hope doesn't even cut it,

it's the dogma of duty,

it's the beckoning of the truth,

into the valley of death rode us,

the five of us.

but it's a wonderful wonderful life.

burning roses

memories slowly drifting towards me
and in the light,
it seems like all these scars come to life.

let's break all the mirrors in this house,
let's send the shards flying round,
because every minute i seem to stay,
i seem to die.

oh, let the walls burn right down
and let the curtains veil
this little girl's fate.

honey, you're growing up,
and it isn't a fairytale.
but it's okay because we'll find a way someday.

honey, it's gonna be tough,
and you're gonna be dismayed,
but He never gave you more than you could handle.

just light a candle,
and pray.
light a candle,
and pray.

that tomorrow, the cigarettes and wine,
they won't be the lie that separates your life and mine.
and all the money in the world,
can't bring you closer,
you have to will your heart
and fight like you're supposed to.

that's the way it is, honey.
that's just the way it is.

Unnamed

There's a line of crimson in the sky today.
It seems like the sun seems to follow its own jestream.
Moonbeam,
You are the stream, silver lining of the river it left behind on the earth.
Moonshadow, oh moon shadow
My dreams, we aspire for the future.

Let not the smoke of today cloud the young of tomorrow.
Let the pain of pushing through this day and the next mean something to the adult I'm trying to raise.
Let our struggles harden the child I'm trying to brave.

We are a delicate race, suspended on fragile strings
Like a chinese yoyo, the world spins,
Sideways,
On its own line of fate.

The city's full of smokers.
She called them 'faithful addicts'.
The tops of those skycrapers
Driving a dagger into the devil.
The demons of the hopeless,
The whores of the fruitless,
The agents of the homeless,
And the kings of the heartless.

I'm not a tool, I'm not a puppet.
I'm a creation, that's been fearfully and wonderfully made,
And my soul is eternal.
A life was promised to me on the other side,
So I'm reaching out to claim it.
I may have missed the nine o'clock bus, but there isn't any traffic.

This is a protest.
By the sinners of the cole world,
We're the brave world.
Take our heartstrings,
Weave into one string,
And fly it.
One day it'll sing out our stories as a star blazes a cross it.
Watch it light up the generations of tomorrow,
And the music left in their ears will sustain them,
We paid their debts,
So they wouldn't have to borrow.
No more begging, no more stealing.

There's a line of crimson in the sky today.