Exposed

via Daily Prompt: Exposed

I have seen her fall on make up after their fights.
She uses it to cover up their rocky relationship.

She doesn’t do it well.

He speaks out for women’s right, compliments strong women, but likes her under his wing.
He likes her at home, where he knows she shall always be safe.
He doesn’t like her begging him for money, but constantly gives her the change.

She appreciates it and smiles brightly each time.
She complains of being naive but doesn’t do anything about it.
She wants to be free but she fears being exposed, vulnerable to a not so safe world.

At night, when she sleeps, she dreams of courage.

During the day, she prays for a better life for her children.

Pen VS Bullets

A timely piece with all the political and military tension all over the world. 

In response to Sidney Keyes’s “War Poet”

“War Poet” is a simple poem I believe Sidney Keyes used to show that he was not meant for the battle field and that it wasn’t his decision to be on it. I believe it is also his interpretation of what happens when War and Poetry mix together- the risk of insanity and thus his wasted potential. “Pen VS Bullets” plays with the two possible decisions Sidney could have made along with the difficulties of both decisions to  bring to light the struggles of war.

All my life, my pen has been my protector.

I wasn’t one who knew how to use anything else nor believed anything could defend me better than words –which I used as an armour.

So, imagine the confusion I felt when someone had used a pen to uproot the lives of others, forgoing it as a protector.

Trust upon me was the decision to be like all men my age, dawn on courage for the sake of my country, the future of its people and ultimately peace.

Trust upon me was the fact that such a decision could lead to my death and hence the death of a man for a cause he did not wholeheartedly believe in, or better still in which its solution, he did not wholeheartedly believe in.

Trust upon me was years of rehabilitation, the possibility of insanity and thus lost potential.

Yet on the other side,

Present was the decision to abandon my country when she and my people needed me most.

Present was the opportunity to grow as a writer but the threat of insanity from the guilt that would come knocking on my doors.

Will my pen see me through the end of this dilemma?

 

The Chibok Girls

April 14th, was the third anniversary of the kidnapping of 276 girls, from the Government Girls Secondary School, school dormitories, in Chibok, Nigeria.

This poem is a cry for the safe return of the rest of the 195 girls that have yet to return.

It’s been three years now. Three years since the 276 girls were taken by force, in the dark of the night from the place that was the foundation of their aspirations. It’s been three years since 195 girls have last seen their families.

It is hard to comprehend. Always has been. It is difficult comprehending how people said to be human beings could celebrate the kidnapping of girls on the path of a better future. It is difficult comprehending why the government has yet to rescue the 195 of them. However, it’s a luxury for those whose problem is in comprehending how such an evil could happen and not in how it had happened to them.

There are things many of us will fail to fully understand. The emotion the parents feel when the next girl, who was managed to make it back home, isn’t their daughter. The emotion a mother feels when her daughter comes back with a baby although she is almost half the age, her Mother was when she had her first child. The agony some of the girls felt losing their babies while escaping.

However, despite the mess, a few thing are clear. Justice shall prevail, we are not afraid, and we shall #BringBackOurGirls.

The Answers

It’s hidden in
Their deaths
The aftermath of the stories they create
The aftermath of living in storyland and experiencing all they wished they could but couldn’t or/and didn’t dare to in the real world.
Tennessee Williams, a profound writer
Who didn’t believe in original sins or guilt but in the reasoning that the right or wrong that individuals make is “by necessity or by certain still-comprehended influences in themselves, their circumstances, and their antecedent”
So,
How would Tennessee Williams explain his own tragic death from asphyxiation?
The fancy word for
His chocking on a plastic medicine cap
An irony or a protest?

It’s hidden in
The 15-20 mins planned story I performed
About how I lived in the Worlds of the characters in my novels
Placed myself in their shoes and took their skin
For so long, far too long
That I was facing the consequences of
A slowly but surely dying body
Due to a disease unknown to man.

It’s hidden in
My poem STORYLAND
In which the very reason I open a book
Books which are so much like life
With a beginning and an end
With many adventures in between
Is simply for the joy of experiencing
Experiencing
More than I ever could in this life time.

It’s hidden in
The New Year Resolutions we make
The bucket list we create
Our search for love
The dreams we hunt for and the goals we hope to fulfill
But most especially the uncertainty of death at any point in time
That lingers in the air.

It’s hidden in
But it’s not that hard to see.

Earphones

Here has come one of the rarest moments,

where listening to my music

doesn’t wrap me in my bubble of bliss.

 

Everything is different.

The beats from my earphones doesn’t swallow me whole.

The soothing melody no longer swings on the tip of my tongue.

 

I am lost, my dreams long lost on a cliff.

I am shouting, lungs out,

crying a river that shall take me away.

 

World Poetry Day Special~

In celebration of World Poetry Day and as a lover of poetry, I created a simple presentation for school, in hopes of encouraging students to write and perform poetry too. I would like to remove the stereotype that people have about poetry, that it is boring and hard and share with them the wonders of poetry.

I hope that after the presentation, students shall have a more positive opinion of poetry and be able to see how simple and beautiful it is.

Here is the power point presentation:

World Poetry Day

Of course, here is an original poem to celebrate the day:

Let’s Talk

Let’s talk about things we don’t usually talk about.

Let’s talk about the pain people hide beneath the cuts.  

Let’s talk about the secrets students bury because they are afraid to talk.

Let’s talk about the dust that old hunchback cleaners with warm smiles sweep out of classrooms, creating sandstorms.

Let’s talk about the whispers flown miles away from circles of teenagers.

Let’s talk about the books we are dying to read but won’t discuss.

Let’s talk about the corrupt we motivate.

Let’s talk about the things we hate, that boil our blood underneath the skins we dread.

Let’s talk about the sky. 

Let’s talk about death and how the unknown prevents us from sleeping.

Let’s talk about the spirits within us that are begging, begging to take over.

Let’s talk about the words we said, didn’t mean to say, wanted to say, couldn’t say, wished to say, lived to say, and died trying to say.

Let’s talk about the future we hope to see in a crystal ball.

Let’s talk about those dodging bullets and bracing violent waves.

Let’s talk about the dreams that have shattered and have yet to be reborn.

Let’s talk about those without a place to call home.

Let’s talk about love and how we all secretly wish for it.

Let’s talk about how selfish and greedy we all are.

Let’s talk about how cruel we’ve made the world and how we are going to make all of it stop.

A Poem Written To The Ticking Of The Clock

I am a dark cloud disguised as sunshine.
I am an opaque lie.
Yet, light rays illuminate through me.

I am constantly missing; constantly overwhelmed by a sense of missing.
Yet always present.
I am no gift. If anything I am a curse.

I shall dress in white satin and dance to the melody of the ticking clock.
I shall dance till the hot wooden floor feels like block ice.
I shall burn the house down with my footsteps; burn it slowly with my gentle angry footsteps.

I will run.
I will run so far, land shall crack to sand and sand shall become sea.
I will shed tears, tastier than the banks we call water bodies and more deadly than the waves that swallow.

I won’t lay on marbles and think of soft cushions.
I won’t skip on stormy beaches and believe in calm seas.
I won’t seek and dream of being hidden.
I won’t dive and believe I shall be saved.

Dreamers often lie but the ink on this paper is dry and the words tattooed on it shall seal the truth.

01/11/16

STORYLAND

The very reason I open a book,
Books which are so much like life
With a beginning and an end,
With many adventures in between
Is simply for the joy of experiencing,
Experiencing
More than I ever could in this lifetime.

To know what it feels like to travel along
Clouds from Asia to Africa,
From London to Mumbai,
To be the Queen of a country,
The ruler of a land,
The boy stuck in a war between senseless politicians.

To know what it feels like to be a singer, a writer, an actress
All at the same time.
To float in space among stars,
To have dreams bigger than oneself,
To be a refugee who’s tired of dodging bullets and thus
Decides to brave the sea
Unfortunately, with waves too high to dodge.

To know what it feels like to be the hero of the day,
The successful detective,
To know what it feels like to be the man who changed the World.

 

🙂 HAPPY WORLD BOOK DAY 

A Wronged Soul

A bruise is how the body remembers it has been wronged.

The hands that spread across
my neck and the handprints
that have stained me will soon
start to define me.

I will continuously wipe
sorrow off my face only
for my hands to be smeared
with blood.

I will roll my eyes
back once my head hits
the bed due to the
recollection that
lives in my head.

My stomach will start to disappear
and my body will
cave in
forming a bowl that would
collect the water, I refused
to drink.

However, there is nothing that
leaves you as thirsty as hate.
The more I drink, the
more I long for it.
The more I scream for it.

Darkness has overcome me.
It has become my second skin.
I claw at it furiously
only to have scars that could
be mistaken for tattoos.

It has come to the point that
the pain that spreads across my
soul has started to spread
across the body that holds it.

There is nothing more frightening
than a soul remembering
that it has been wronged.