Walking away…

Walking away…

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And he said, “I am fond of you”, just that.
Not “I love you”, or “I like you”, He just felt a fondness for me. Something to say he enjoyed being in my company but, He wouldn’t take it any further.
For a while, it was enough for me. I couldn’t get the entire cake, so I settled for that little slice, enough to leave a sweet taste in my mouth for a while.

But as all things come crashing down eventually, my fantasy did. I realized when you love someone, “fondness” just couldn’t cut it. There’s a little bitterness that begins to form in the throat when you tell someone “I love you”, and they smile and utter, “I’m fond of you too”.

The bitterness spread in my mouth and I knew I had to make a choice. It was either him or me. If I choose him, I lose myself. So before my heart could convince me to do otherwise, I ran. Not literally. In the span of a few moments, I deleted his contacts, his pictures, his physicalities, leaving only his memories. His memories… Science had taught me a time will come when they will begin to fade too.

Sometimes, you have to love yourself enough to walk away from things and people who put a dent around your heart.

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Without you-

Without you-

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I’ve always wondered
What it would feel like
If one day we awaken and
The sun refused to shine.
If the tree leaves stood ramrod
Without the rhythm of the winds.
If the birds remained in their niches,
And the sky stood empty.

What would it feel like
If all the coffee shops lacked coffee,
(Decaf does not count),
If papers wouldn’t take up poetry,
If silence was the new “pollution”.
And noise became (what’s noise?)

Then you left.
Although,
The coffee shops are still stocked
And of course the sun arose.
The tree leaves are dancing,
And the birds going to and fro.
Today.. I know how it feels.


Last month was my blogiversary, and I asked you all to ask any questions you want to be answered. For this month, I’d be posting my blog posts with an answer to a question, so keep an eye out for that.

Question 2 (Jodi) She asks “where does your inspiration for your writing comes from. It is often sad and deep and I worry it is about you.”

Most of the time, I get my inspiration from life. I am not an abstract person, so abstract art and still life art are not my forte. I cant look at an empty cup and easily gain inspiration from that. My inspiration comes from people. 

I am a very inquisitive person, I love to understand people, why they feel the way the do, why they react certain ways. And if i don’t have answers to that, I find that poetry gives me the freedom to create that. It helps me fill in the remaining pictures of a puzzle. And also, the amount tragedy and sadness floating around becomes too much for me to contain at times, and so writing becomes a way of unburdening.
I hope that answers the question.

My Truth (about depression)

My Truth (about depression)

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Depression
Is not just a phase
Like the girl who outgrows
Enacting plays with dolls,
Or pretending the mirror
Is her applauding audience.

Depression
Is not just sadness
It is screaming and anger
And irritability-
Being a short ended fuse.
It is rudeness and numbness
And night vigil,
To make it go away.

Depression’s antidote
Is not love.
It doesn’t magically evaporate
By the presence of someone
Whose world revolves around
You.
Love makes it better,
Love is no cure.

Depression is not glamorous.
It is pure hell,
It is a mean friend.

Last month was my blogiversary, and I asked you all to ask any questions you want to be answered. For this month, I’d be posting my blog posts with an answer to a question, so keep an eye out for that.
Question 1 (Colin and Ray). He asked: What was the most impactful event (what has influenced you the most) in your life to date?

I had to think a lot about this because there’s been quite a few events, but, I ended up choosing one. And this is because, this particular event was what started a spiral for me and that event is “leaving home and going to another country (Sudan) at the age of 15 to start university.
The main reason I chose this is because, I know now, that if everything that occurred with me whilst I was in Sudan, had happened back at home, the end results would have been completely different. So moving to Sudan at that particular age and time, made all the difference.
Thank you very much For the question Colin.

Writer’s Poem: Aftermath of loss

Writer’s Poem: Aftermath of loss

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Writer’s poem Wednesday is back. The past few months I was away, I came across some great poems which were previously unfamiliar to me. I love striking a chord with new poetry. Today’s poem talks about a woman whose son resembles her deceased brother, both in mannerism and physically. Its a beautiful reflection of the aftermath of the death of a loved one. I hope you like it.

A drink of water by Jeffrey Harrison

When my nineteen-year-old son turns on the kitchen tap
and leans down over the sink and tilts his head sideways
to drink directly from the stream of cool water,
I think of my older brother, now almost ten years gone,
who used to do the same thing at that age;

and when he lifts his head back up and, satisfied,
wipes the water dripping from his cheek
with his shirtsleeve, it’s the same casual gesture
my brother used to make; and I don’t tell him
to use a glass, the way our father told my brother,

because I like remembering my brother
when he was young, decades before anything
went wrong, and I like the way my son
becomes a little more my brother for a moment
through this small habit born of a simple need,

which, natural and unprompted, ties them together
across the bounds of death, and across time …
as if the clear stream flowed between two worlds
and entered this one through the kitchen faucet,
my son and brother drinking the same water.

Call me Beautiful-

Call me Beautiful-

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Some like ‘em skinny.
Some like ‘em thickum.
But until you find it within yourself to love you as you are,

You’re going to spend the rest of your life holding on to friendships which should long have been allowed to wither away, simply because they find you “beautiful”.
You are going to spend the rest of your life  crawling through moments, searching, chasing, someone to call you beautiful.

And until you learn to love yourself, “beautiful” to you would always, always mean something that is skin deep.
But my dear… Beautiful is so much more than that. Beautiful is not skin deep, it is soul deep.

Begin Again-

Begin Again-

 

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At the back of my mind, I always knew that, It, this, could come to an end.

I could die,
He could die,
He could leave…
And I know this might seem a morbid thought to many. But, there has always been a spot of realism amidst my fairytale romanticism filled life.

I try to keep a little spot, save a little grey in my rainbow, in order to remind myself about the reality of life.

I refuse to live in a world filled with illusions and the delusion that endings is not a possibility.

I want to be able to say: I am okay and I am fine with endings now because I know I can always begin again.

Apology-

Apology-

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There are mornings
When my spirit is filled
With the songs of the
Mockingbirds… singing
Alive… in tune…
and i I am up for laughter,
Banter,
But,
There are mornings
When one word answers
Are all I can muster-
Yeah
Okay
Fine
Bye… but I really dont mean
Bye, more like an
I’m sorry it feels like the weight of the world is heavy upon my shoulders”;
It feels that way, and I want to unburden and say something nice, but I cant”.

Please understand,
I am still trying to get
My bearings and navigate
Both mornings.
I am still trying to understand me.

Time after time-

Time after time-

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The first time was labelled a mistake,
The second- a slip of the fist;
The third time was claimed due to fatigue,
By the fourth, I was used to it.

The fifth time, I filled up a complaint,
But withdrew, only for a sixth to occur.
By the seventh- I wiped off the blood stain,
Cold packs and analgesics would do.

The eight time, I felt oh so grateful,
There were no blood, just minor bruises.
The ninth time, I looked at the mirror,
at a person, I no longer knew.

The 10th, the 11th, the 12th time-
And my memories can no longer count;
The first time, He labelled it a mistake,
And I was blind to see It was a choice.
A choice… not a slip of the fist.


Hello everyone, I would like to apologise for my absence. Currently writing my finals, finishing soon though. I wish I could write and post and read your works, but there is only 24 hours In a day and at this point, every minute counts…  will be back soon 

Day 5: Over Too Soon

Day 5: Over Too Soon

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You watched me grow from a 21 year old kid to a twenty six year old adult. Held my hand, stood beside, while I crashed and rose and crashed some more because, I never learnt the first time.

You braved it out despite knowing, you were not my choice. You were solely the outcome of a daughter abiding to a mother’s choice.

You stood beside me when the people I thought were my world looked at me, solely as a label. Your caramel eyes peering into mine as you declare, “You are perfect”. A mantra you’d whisper, no matter how often I needed to hear it.

You’d tell me up when I needed it most. And it hurt, and I sulked, but each time I’d secretly acknowledge you were right… secretly.

I didn’t tell you. I could but I didn’t. You didn’t get to hear me say “you were right”. You didn’t get to hear me say- I love you.
And just as we were, we are no more. It’s just me- my sorrow, my burden, my grief, my guilt and my words which I whisper to the winds hoping the carry them to the ground you lay.
I love you…. I’m sorry.


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I really enjoyed doing the december poetry challenge last year. Plus, I found this really inspiring prompt called “30 layers, 30 days” which many bloggers have completed now. So, I decided to use the prompts for December.

Prompts: Day 4 (The right person), Day 5 (Over too soon).

Day 2: Idea of You

Day 2: Idea of You

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The girl who spilled juice on
A mother’s newly moped floor is
In You.

The girl who sneaked dolls to
Classes because school needs
more fun is
In You.

The girl who faked stomach cramps
Joint pain, hospital visits to escape
Detention is
In You.

The girl who’s anger was at the
Tip of a button is
In You.

The girl who soaked her sheets
With emotions streaming across
Her face is
In You.

The girl who lived and loved and
Joked and took each day Without
A care is
In you.

The clumsy is in you,
The angry is in you,
The happy is in you,
The sad is in you,
-a part of you, not the
Whole picture.

You are who you know yourself
To be.
Not the idea thrown across
By anyone,
By everyone.


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I really enjoyed doing the december poetry challenge last year. Plus, I found this really inspiring prompt called “30 layers, 30 days” which many bloggers have completed now. So, I decided to use the prompts for December.

Today’s Prompt: An idea of you