Mist

I’m on the bus now wondering to myself who I could call if I have an emotional breakdown this very moment

One name comes to mind, but I don’t know what to say

I don’t know if she shall deal with my fragile state with the same amount of care i would hers or anybody else’s

I know that she wouldn’t know what words to say, when to say them and thus I shall have to do the bandaging myself, only to have her watching at the corner

Why is it that I see and handle pain better than the people I call friends?

I hate being vulnerable, I know that very well,
and maybe it is cause I have learnt that when you put expectations on people, they always disappoint,
so I have learnt to compress my emotions like recycled can drinks before they become new soft drinks

And I know very well, that I have been lucky that there hasn’t been a volcano eruption right deep in my being, however my luck is running out

I begin to see it crystal clear, I have allowed people to treat me as their emotional garbage

Always there to hear their problems, to sit with them to find solutions, yet always tossed to the side when life is going great for them

And my ice cube justification that it is better me than people who shall hurt them is slowly but surely turning into mist

Every point in my life, I relearned the lesson, you only have yourself at the end of the day

Advertisements

Times Like These

Today,
for the first time in 3 years,
I feel the breeze in my hair;
on my scalp,
freedom reaching into my soul.

It is times like these that you wonder
why you could not feel hope under the rubble
why you could not feel empowered after a heartbreak.

It is times like these that you wonder
what exactly makes life so hard
what makes your bone crack like grounded cocoa, bitter sweet.

7:35 am

Today I woke up with my heart heavy,
with my chest tight,
and my eyes dry

Today I woke up and wanted to lie back down,
where I disappeared for hours at end,
and not deal with the world

Today I woke up and found out once again that I stick out like a sore thumb in this world;
not quite at each end of the spectrum of fun,
and thus right smack in the middle of lame

Today I woke up and hated how I spent other days when I could breathe in fresh air;
kept myself hidden in a box,
instead of floating on the clouds

Today I woke up and thought about self-worth and self-love,
and wondered if they were the same,
if they were reminders that you have no guide but yourself to help you see when the world turns dark

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?