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 

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Writer’s Poem: Loneliness

Writer’s Poem: Loneliness

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Have you ever wished you could leave your loneliness behind and it would never catch up to you? I do understand, sometimes, it is one of those experiences which is part and parcel of life. But at times, loneliness stays for a longer time than it is wanted.

Loneliness is not spending the day all alone in your room. It creeps up on us and wraps it cold arms around us, regardless, if we are alone or in a crowd. No wonder, we sometimes wish we could leave it behind. Today’s poem by the phenomenal writer, Naomi Shihab Nye, touches on this same topic in a few lines. I hope you enjoy it.

The Rider by Naomi Shihab Nye
A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,

the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.

What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.

A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell.

We are society-

We are society-

 

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We are society.
You, me, her, him.
We are the man with the gun
Bringing an end to another soul;
We are the man on the street,
With hands outstretched
Just one more meal.
We are the woman looking behind
In an empty street,
Hands trembling, praying
for a safe return home.
We are the man with the hoodie
And white powder in his pocket,
We are the kid with the money,
In exchange.

We are society:
You, me, her, him.
We bleed society.
We stain society.
We make society.
We blame society.
It is neither a wall, nor a street,
A road or a bottle.
Society is you and me.
Do you get what I’m saying?

 

The thing about addiction-

The thing about addiction-

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The sun sprayed gloriously upon my skin, the mockingbirds sang the tune of my soul, natures forces whispered to me and I felt renewed, rejuvenated…. That, is not how it happened. I wish I could say that was it, but it wasn’t it.

It took a tragedy to pull me out of my darkness. A tragedy so great, I expected it to plunge me further into darkness’ clutches. I didn’t just wake up and decide to take hold of life; I woke up, and Life happened to me… That woke me up!

The sun did shine gloriously that morning, the hummingbirds sang, and nature’s forces were aligned in their greatest- but one person didn’t.

How it started, I can’t even remember. And before we could figure out our lives, the drugs had taken control of us. But that’s the thing about addiction, you don’t realise it is a problem until It has it’s cold arms, wrapped tightly around you in an unrelenting grip.

She didn’t wake up. I watched her lying there, with too many tubes, looking the most peaceful I’ve ever seen her, the doctor’s words amplified in my head; not a single visitor, not another friend present… I knew, unless I changed something, sooner rather than later, It would be me lying there.

I wish I could say, I simply woke up and decided to change my life. It took a tragedy, to pull me out of my darkness.

 

In Plain sight-

In Plain sight-

 

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Night sky
No longer scares me,
Neither the darkened alley,
Nor darkened rooms.
I have seen darkness,
On a bright summer day,
In the hearts of fair men
Whose smile,
Melt most people away.
I have heard darkness,
Through the words of women,
Covered up head to toe
In spirituality.
I have felt darkness,
From hands that pass the
Biggest offerings,
At religious gatherings.

Night sky,
No longer scares me.
I have seen enough of the dark
To know, the worst there is-
Hides in plain sight.

Writer’s Poem Wednesday: Kailee Venzin

Writer’s Poem Wednesday: Kailee Venzin

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A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of reading the words of a fellow blogger, Kailee Venzin. It struck a chord with me. And today, I have the pleasure of sharing it with all of you, for my writer’s poem Wednesday.

Yes, I know, I should have posted a contemporary poem but this really, is a great one. I hope you enjoy. Do check out her blog for more poems at: https://innervoicewriting.wordpress.com/

I have seen the world gone mad by Kailee Venzin

I have seen the world gone mad,
seen women bolstered by deep aches
and sly “handshakes”, burning
flags and setting the world on fire.

But I feel lost,
swallowed by a fever.
I drift as if someone took a bite out of me
and spit me out into the world.
I want to stop living in fear of losing another part of myself.

I want to be a lighthouse in the city,
call all my sisters home.
I want to pull the lost ones in,
be the blanket around their trembling bodies.
I want to feel the rebound of heat
of my breath on their necks, whisper-
It’s okay to be broken.
We’re beautiful broken.

I want to be a pussy willow,
that furry young catkin
whispering on her skin.
Soothe her like
that softness did for me as a child.
I want to shout-
You don’t have to wear hard soled shoes
to walk over the rocks.
You can wait til your feet have calloused.
You can wait til your shoulders are strong enough
to hold your body upside down.
I want to take every broken child,
their butter skin between my sidewalk hands
and say-
Don’t you dare lose that
wild wonder in your eyes.
Don’t you dare forget
that strength in your pelvis,
the fervor that carried you home.
You can be broken,
Oh, so broken,
And still be strong.

For my sisters:

For my sisters:

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110 of my sisters were taken today.
No yesterday… no,
It’s been a week now.
I’m losing my mind?
Just like the government who claimed:
No, they weren’t taken.
No, they’ve been rescued.
Ohh we’re sorry.. yes they’ve been taken.

110 families,
Under the watch of their leaders,
Awakened to the news their daughters,
Have been taken from their schools.
And the leaders stay sheltered,
In their villas and mansions.
110 of my sisters are gone,
And their leaders are radio silent.

The mothers at weeping,
The fathers are grieving,
My sisters have been taken by men,
Known to show no mercy.

110 of my sisters were taken from school,
To the leaders, I say this: 
It could have been your daughters too. 


MINI RANT: 110 girls were kidnapped the past week from their school. All that these girls and their families wanted, was an education, and now they’ve been taken. At first, the authorities denied that the girls had been taken before eventually admitting it.

A few years back, over 200 girls were kidnapped from their schools and we are yet to rescue over a 100 of them. This doesnt give us much solace regarding the girls taken now. There’s a saying: Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. It is a shame that we, as a country allowed this to happen again. All these girls (Dapchi Girls) wanted was an education, I pray we get them back safe and sound….. Its been 9days!!!! 

Nothing prepares you…

Nothing prepares you…

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Nothing prepares you for that knock on the door, that one thing which throws your world into a whirl storm.

There is no set manual which details- preparation for loss.
But, it doesn’t come as a shock either.

You’ve felt flutterings in your heart all morning, not the pleasant kind.
Your hand trembles as you lift the coffee cup to your lips.

You feel some type of way but you don’t know why…
soon enough- you do.

There’s a banging on the door. A body is framed in the doorway.
Your heart skips a beat, lips quiver,
no word is said but a silent motherly message passes across- from her to you.

She barges into the house, turns on the TV set. Her legs give way.
She collapses onto the couch.

You crash beside her, hands intertwined in each other’s. Holding onto the only thing you’ve got- hope.

A voice on the TV utters, “school under siege”.
All you hear: “our baby boys are under siege”.

Nothing prepares you for that knock on the door. When your world as you know it- is thrown into a storm.

My Father-

My Father-

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My father…
What isn’t there to say,
About the man, whose voice
Carried a coldness, akin to the
December weather.

His footsteps-
you could swear left
imprints, on the cold hard
Impenetrable ground.

And his eyes,
had a constantly hovering
Guard of beetle black hair
Furrowed above them. Like a
Permanent tattoo.

He stood ramrod straight,
And spoke in an untremulous way.
He was the dictionary definition of
“Head of the household”.

Then- mama found a place
Amongst the soil,
Six feet under- enshrouded
In white.

His shoulders slopped,
His eyes sacked,
His voice lost the arid detachment
It was famous for… His footsteps,
Barely audible.

And I learnt,
Even a mountain requires
A solid ground to build up on.
Without it- it’d crumble.
My father lost his solid ground.

 

We good-

We good-

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I washed myself since I was four,
Since mama was hidden,
Under crumbling stones
But don’t worry about us…
I lifted my brother,
Fed him,
Washed him,
Loved him…
But don’t worry about us.

The skies rained down on us:
Day after day
After day..
Blood dripped down his knees,
But don’t worry about us…
I cleaned his wounds,
Bathed it,
Wrapped it,
Kissed it..
But don’t worry about us.

The grounds are white, our
Bones they shiver
I grab my brother,
Rub him,
Wrap him,
Warm him
But don’t worry about us…
The moon is out,
Will we see morning?’
Maybe-
But don’t worry about us.
You never did…

The above image is gotten from: http://thechronicleherald.ca/world/336329-cold-comfort-in-kabul