Way Too Many Feels.

It’s the first time in a long time
But I feel lonely again
Like my soul has escaped my body
In pursuit of you, of anybody
Willing to love me
I feel empty.

Like the surrounding spirits evaporated
Leaving me unsheltered from the cold
Unable to hold down my own
I feel helpless.

Like my mind is willing
But this flesh is weak
It nudges me towards destruction
In the arms of a love I could never accept
Yet I allow it to comfort me
I feel stuck.

A.

Make It Make Sense.

According to physics, roses are red,
Just like the skies are blue.
But blue isn’t just the warmest colour,
It’s your favourite colour.
And oud amber isn’t just the sultriest smell,
It’s your signature scent.
Your aura, your being,
My memories still alive and breathing.
How can I lay in bed without thinking?
With stars above me,
A representation of your creativity.
My favourite wine at the cornershop
Sits right next to magnum
Like you sit right next to me,
In my heart.
I can’t use Cameroon pepper without giggling,
Can’t entertain thoughts of you without smiling.
I do dumb shit like I toast bread in my frying pan
Even though I don’t like bread
And I don’t like toast,
I like doing thing that remind me of then .
Like trying out recipes that don’t exist beyond the scope of caucasianism.
Because this was the epitome of happiness,
In the midst of my depression.
So why does it feel like regret?

A.

Your Words Are Empty.

Creativity encompasses my very existence,
It’s my escape.
My version of passive resistance,
Because the world would never be enough for me.
And so I find myself elongating emotional encounters,
Enunciating each syllable of each word within each sentence,
To ensure it sounds better, feels better.
Maybe if I manage to pick apart each segment,
Or completely reconstruct and redefine,
Conversations would finally be deep enough for me to hold on to,
And your love would somehow be good enough to make me vulnerable.
I mean you say you love me but is that all?
Do you not wish to expatiate some more?
Emphasise on what it is about me that stands out,
Like how my lips look caricatured when I attempt to pout,
The awkwardness that envelopes me when you catch me checking you out,
How I miss every tune as I attempt to sing along to our favourite songs.
Do you not want to say that these make you fall a little bit more? Or deeper? Or faster?
Doesn’t anything I do make your heart grow fonder?
Your words of affection are so plain,
They mean nothing to the people on my side of the creative spectrum.
How could I possibly believe them?

A.

Perfection.

Perfection was a myth before your presence became my resting place.
Like flying pigs and purple rain,
Like policemen and black lives matter,
Like true love and soulmates,
Perfection was created to instil hope.
It didn’t exist.
How could it?
Why should it?
But perfection was what I felt.
It was you on a gloomy day,
Words of affirmation rolling off the tip of a familiar tongue,
Thousands of words exchanged daily.
Perfection was inner jokes and comments, o so shady,
Embarrassing nicknames and frequent glances.
For a word that wasn’t real, it sure was considerate and thoughtful,
Brilliant and delightful.
For a moment, I was finally convinced
That it did exist.
How could it not?

A.

Would You?

Would you come lie next to me?
Just one last time?
I miss how it used to be
Before this war crime.

Would you ring my number?
Just for today?
Peace was hearing your voice fade away
As I fell into a deep slumber

Would you shorten my name?
Just because I’d do the same?
To one vowel and a consonant
Everything else sounds so distant.

A.

What Do I Do Now?

What do I do now?
With this repertoire of unfinished poetry
All of these plans for the future
What the hell should I do
With the messages I typed up but never sent
And the ‘I love you’s” I said internally
The me too’s and the please stay’s

I can’t finish them because I can’t relate
These feelings I thought I felt
No longer emanate
From the pores of my heart
They don’t propagate
The longing feelings I felt from the start.
What do I do now?

A.

I’m Getting Help.

You called me guarded,
And I laughed while subtly denying it.
But I lied. That shit was true.
Because if it wasn’t,
I would have laid my heart out on the table.
I would have pinpointed areas where it hurt,
Acres of muscle dead from the pain,
Incapable of permitting planted love to grow.
It rejected grains of affection intended to germinate into love.
I would have allowed my deepest desires to roll off the top of my tongue,
Learned to relish in compliments;
Those said and sung,
Whispered and typed out.
Maybe we wouldn’t be here.
But my fingers twitch and my jaws clench
At the thought of openness,
The idea of vulnerability.
Confronted with the fact that I still consider you my serenity.
Home away from home,
A sweet relief,
You, my dear, are my honeycomb.

-I’m getting help so I can get you

A.

You Write Because You Can’t Speak.

Have you ever had so much to say,
You settle for silence?
Because your hearts is too full,
And your thoughts too complex,
To relay on to the simple minded.
And so, the weight of your words,
Rest heavy on your tongue.
It’s impossible to lift.
Impossible to speak.
You are hushed by your own mind,
Verbally crippled by your own thoughts.
Afraid of how much dept you may go into.
How many tables could be shook?
How many elders brought down to their weak knees?
How much tears would be shed?
Because even though words are just words,
They cut deep.
Into a realm that only exists in some people’s reality,
So only they comprehend,
And only they are consumed by emotions,
The type you feel when surpressed memories resurface.
You know this because you felt it.
So rather than speak, you write.
Convincing yourself that it carries less weight.
But those are lies that you would some day cry about.

A.

Solitude.

Solitude doesn’t ask what’s wrong,
She lets me be.
She doesn’t reach out,
Or hold me when I’m down.
When emotions get the better of me,
And I’m left in a puddle of my never ending tears,
I don’t feel solitude looking at me through pitiful eyes.
She doesn’t pat my back like they do with helpless kids.
There are no constant echos of generic words intended to encourage,
No tight hugs rendering me fragile.
So I don’t feel shame,
Not like I do in her absence.
But my solitude eats me up,
More often that I care to admit.

A

What Fear Does To Me.

It’s 2am and my body jolts itself to life.
I’ve been drinking, I’ve been smoking,
Hoping that these chemicals would numb the pain,
Mask the anxiety,
Do something other than drive me insane.
The fear that I know,
Transits through my heavy heart.
But today, it’s come to stay.
Like a spider in its silky matrix,
Or a child in its mother’s arms.
Shall I cuddle it? Nurse it?
Reason with it so it knows how to perceive,
Negative emotions causing my body to grieve?
So it knows when to leave?
Or should I give up on fighting?
On arguing on negotiating,
With dark clouds of fear poisoning my lungs.
If I can’t breathe, I can’t speak in tongues,
Or call on my saviour, I can’t cast and bind.
Not while I’m spiritually blind.

Someone plead the blood of Jesus on my behalf.

A.