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.

Bagels And Sriracha Sauce – II.

Adaptation is your number one enemy,
But you would master her.
You would learn not to flinch when he raises his hand,
Because unlike the previous, these hands descend gently,
Not with anger, with love and affection.
You would learn that these walls only enclose you,
From experiences created for your enjoyment,
You would learn to listen and believe,
Not everyone is out to get you,
Not every man is there to betray.
It is okay to open up,
It is okay to get to be understood.
That’s normal and that’s healthy,
In an environment built on mutual interest.
Most of all, you would learn to stop being ashamed.
Only you know why you flinch and cross your arms.
Why you take a step back and speak through clenched jaws.
You learned to protect yourself during a downpour of darts,
And you would unlearn it to permit love to enter,
But you would not be ashamed.

A.

Lost And Not Found.

I had lost my innocence trying to persevere,
Misplaced my happiness by choosing to stay,
Given up my voice listening to yours.
Most of all,
I lost my compassion trying to guard my heart.

I’m not the same person.

A.

Calm

Close your eyes and count to ten.
Is life calmer now than it was then?
How long have you suffered?
Tell me, since when..
Did you choose to shrink yourself?
When did this all begin?
The world is full of evil,
Darling you are not the first to sin.
So lift your head up and pull your hair back
Just like you do his foreskin.
The world is our oyster,
And you are here to win.

A.

You Don’t Love Me.

While I hold my half empty bottle of sweet smelling red wine,
I look at you in dismay,
Because, you don’t love me,
You just love the way that my hips sway,
And twist and turn.
Knowing it doesn’t matter how far I drift,
I would always return,
To a place of convenience.
And once again it was your turn,
To have and to hold,
My physical form.
Because frail as I am,
I’m a perfect shelter from your temporary emotional storm.
A replacement, a substitute,
A woman willing to conform.
You don’t love me, you love that I can perform,
Tips and tricks like you’ve never seen before,
Do you find your mind wandering?
Are images of me still lingering?
In your mind, your memories,
Your deeply buried fantasies.
You don’t love me, you love that I’m broken.
Hurt beyond repair,
Clearly forsaken.
Tossed around like I was theirs to share,
Theirs to acquire. Theirs to devour.
Just let me be while I ache in silence.

A.

We’re Millennials Remember?

We’re millennials remember?
No strings attached.
Just an air of attraction,
Etching us in.
Pulling us closer,
until we’re skin to skin,
Chest to chest.
Whatever this is, I feel it within.
You’ll hold me in your arms,
And I’ll never say,
That everyday is a good day,
As long as you’re on my mind.
And you are.
In the mornings, at night,
And every hour in between.
But my lips must remain silent.
My back must stay turned on the possibilities.
Tempting as it may be,
I must be void of all emotional responsibilities,
Potential insecurities.
The idea of the idea,
The possibility of the possibility.
Because like I said,
We are millennial, remember?
It’s a culture,
We both gotta stay woke.

A.

An Insight To My “Creative” Brain.

I often receive questions about the inspiration for my poetry and I’ve never quite known the perfect response to give. Today however, I’m going to give you an insight to what my thought process is like most of the time.

A few days ago, I had switched off my lights to go back to bed at 6 in the morning. One would assume that as a responsible member of the society, this would be the time where I hit the shower, grab a cup of coffee and embark on the new day’s journey. I’m sorry to completely destroy your perception of me. The truth is, you couldn’t be more far off from my reality.

Anyway, my usual bedtime ritual includes going through my half written poetry/prose/stories in my notes aiming to either complete them, delete them or be inspired by them. On said day, I didn’t do any of the above, I went straight into my notes to write about switching off my lights. See, I recently got glow in the dark stars and so my favourite thing to do is turn off the lights and just lie in bed smiling at the ceiling. This time, I wasn’t just going to smile at my stars while I let my mind wander, I was going to write about them because that’s what creatives do…right?

“You lit up my room
Like you light up my face
Like you light up my world”

Those were the first three lines that came to my mind and I quickly typed them up. Could this be the beginning or the end or the middle of my new poem? Is ‘light up my face” a better phrase than “light up my eyes”? Shall I say “light” or “lit”. “Like you lit up my world” does this mean he is dead? Or have we broken up? Was this break up smooth or rough? Was this an agreement we both came to? Did I love this person? Of course I did he lit up my world. Okay but did he know? Who is he even? Do people need to know him or does that move the focal point from my stars to a man? Do I miss him? There’s no point reminiscing if I didn’t so yes, I miss you and I could also be sad and empty – a possible continuation. Hmm…

“Do you think about me when the lights go out?”

Another line that comes to mind so I quickly type it up. Damn how do I make this relevant? It does sound like an appropriate way to begin a poem. It’s a question, I like questions, do you? Right so at what point do I talk about my room being dark? Do I have to mention switching off the light or shall we just infer that? What other poems have I written with similar starts to them? I’d hate to sound repetitive. Hmm…

“Twinkle twinkle little stars
Of course I don’t wonder what you are,
I acquired you, protected you”

This sounds like a new start to me. I better move “do you think of me when the lights go out” to a new note. That’s going to be a different poem about nostalgia. I’m excited now. What exactly did I protect these stars from? At what point do I tell my readers these are glow in the dark stars? Shall I allow them come to that conclusion themselves? Could I just make this one of those abstract poems that don’t really make sense but make sense at the same time? Once again, how do I join this up with the first three lines I came up with? Also, if my stars are “you” then it’s got to be “like he lit up my face, like he lit up my world” but who is he? How did he light up my room? Shall I explain this too? How long is this poem? Hmm…

“Sheltered you away from the light
Because I wasn’t ready
For you to absorb and illuminate back
I’m afraid of change,
Please cut me some slack”

Now I love this because at this point I don’t know if I’m still talking about stars or a man, genius. Although, I don’t see how this is related to my first three lines but I must use that by force. What am I even doing writing about glow in the dark stars while my mates are writing about nature – the sun, prominent in the skies and the gradual increase in temperatures, an invite blossoming flowers openly accept. But look at me and my fake stars that literally steal other people’s shine.

Okay one last semi complicated line before I go to sleep. I’ll deal with this on a different day.

“Random array of stars with no real hmm…

Stars plastered all around my slanted ceiling
With no real pattern, no actual hmm…
There is no method to this madness

*look for a word that ends with ‘ess’ and make a semi sensible line here*

I’ve been taught that light could be a particle or a wave
But today and for a while now,
Light was him
He lit up my room like he lit up my eyes
Like he lit up my world.”

Time for bed. I’ll deal with this on a different day or month or year. My eyes are shutting now and I hate when I sleep off half way through a sent…

Goodnight,
A