you’re never out of my imagination

I only have to close my eyes and I’ll soon start crying again
My silence is heavy upon me,
Thoughts of you fill my head all the time
It’s funny how someone I haven’t even met can affect my life so
I look forward to the day when we will meet
Will you have my ears or my smile?
Will you have his big brown eyes?
You leave me wondering …

You keep me awake at night with your conversations
I sing you songs to make you sleep
I tell you stories of a time you’ll soon experience
I cannot hide you anymore as each day I swell more and more, bearing witness of your imminent arrival.
You leave me wondering …

It’s only a matter of time till the accident of birth when we’ll meet
I wonder what it will be like
I pray it’s easy and quick
I find no answer in your mumblings inside me
Still, you leave me wondering,
Never out of my imagination.

 

 

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me, the mirror and my goddam boobs

In the war against self, angst and joy make the most noise… Increasing the burden on the soul to pretend to find the spiritedness of its once youthful exuberance… Shoooo even the sound of that sentence makes my mind exhausted

So I flip the page, hoping to find a new chapter… A corner of the mind that hasn’t yet been polluted with the dejectedness of being grown…

In between the rubble sprigs of hope sprout shoots… Growing small eyes with a skewed view of the pavement. In the end all that’s left is me, the mirror and my goddam boobs

Leading me to my favourite street. With its welcoming avenue…

journey to its serenity

The moment of death is fixed.

Life is nothing but a journey to its serenity.

The moments in between.

Tears.

Conversations at midnight.

Death is a wide open embrace.

Somersaults of winds that bring the rain at night.

Dreams of summer bring nothing but crazy memories of brown skin against wet sand.

The moment of death is fixed.

Life is nothing but a series of steps up a hill.

Tumbling down sand dunes.

Salt water seeps between cracks and gnaws at the wound.

The moment of death is fixed.

Its muted tones leaves a trail of stillness.

I know what I knew then: Lying here would bring me closer to my maker.

the deal

Nothing beats the discovery of love in tree houses.
With birds chirping all around, loud enough to muffle the sounds
that we shouldn’t be making in the first place.
We imagine ourselves in that other city,
In another world another time where no one knows who we are and
where we’ve been
Avenues lined with palm trees,
We walk hand in hand
Far from a life punctuated with uncertainty.
Nothing beats the feeling of stolen moments
Whispers in the dark, secrets sworn
Happy in the knowledge that we’re each other’s One.
With the prospect of marriage looming happily in our horizons
Mirages of a life we’ve been dreaming of for so long.
Well, that’s how we hope it is going to be.
He never escapes my imagination and I his.
He is presence and I am reality.

magic series: i see rainbows

i see rainbows..

even when it doesn’t rain…

i see rainbows…

streams of warm colours

that tremble when touched.

i hear songs

harmonies of pleasure

that hum along over scattered rhythms.

i see rainbows…

and i remember

a time when i loved you

before you could bring yourself

to stop throwing up

at the sight of your face

reflected in the still waters

around our home…

i see rainbows

streaks of hope

between the ribbons of light.

and i wonder

if my imagination is enough

to carry me

to its ends….

the fly life

right now,
i wish i was a fly on a wall
on the sunny side of this building.
catching a tan;
or whatever it is flies do on walls
i’d sit and listen.
pick up dirty bits;
and hope no one swats me dead.
i’d move with the sun
as the day progresses
the fly life..
aah…

 

i am no survivor…

French-Canadian singer, Madeline Peyroux sings:

“sticks and stonessurvivor

may break my bones,

but tears don’t leave any scars

so i’m alright”

these lyrics almost have me flipping to ‘Survivor’ by Destiny’s Child.

And I can’t help but think that

being a survivor

is truly overrated,
if you ask me(i know you didn’t but still, i’m sharing that anyway).
it’s a vain attempt to show the world our supposed strength.

that i-can-beat-anything, false bravado.
what does it even mean to survive?
who determines the degree of resilience?
heck, i’ve been through somethings
and most of the time, i like to fool myself into believing that i have successfully
survived those trying times.
how do i explain to myself
those moments when i simply cannot get up in the morning?
those moments when i simply do not have the strength to enjoy the sunshine?
does that mean i’m not surviving?

is that a sign of weakness?
when your body is so consumed with this mind-pain that is unbearably huge and seems insurmountable..
so really, what does being a survivor mean?
is there a badge one gets to show the world that i have “survived”?
i may walk with my head held high
and laugh with the world
does that mean i have survived?
i’ve never been a victim of sexual abuse as a child, or physical abuse by a partner or any of those things that get people gasping, speechless, fumbling for words of sympathy.
does this make my plight any less heavier?
well i believe it is completely acceptable to concede defeat along the way.
it’s alright to completely miss the mark some times, at the very least it makes life’s twist and turns seem interesting (laughable,almost)..

 

book project: lies = fiction

the story of you’s been walking around the world with me for so long, that i’m now lies and fictionafraid to let it go on paper.

you’ve been growing in my head all this time that i can hardly separate truth from lie from fiction.

i’m not me. i’m not you.

what about all the lies? were they part of the narrative of you? a way of escaping the unbearable reality called life.

multiple personalities? there must be, how else do you explain the intricate lives your character is juggling?

paranoia? afraid that someone will figure it all out. the fiction.

anxiety? well…

fear? hardly surprising considering the fictional living

all make for an interesting state of mind…

do the lies we tell, the small untruths, add up to the fiction of you?

if they do, then we are all born storytellers…

magic series: inside out…

inside outSo many bodies,

so many hands that have touched.

Clambering to get away.

It’s like looking in a mirror.

All around me. These faces.

They don’t stop gazing. Looking.

Running doesn’t help.

Climbing walls to get away.

They are already in.

Groping.

Reaching. For me.

Inside.

Scrubbing doesn’t help.

Forgetting doesn’t work.

Climbing walls to get away.

Bordering on music.

I stop there.

Afraid to carry on.

Scared this beastly creation

would leave my body.

Exhausted. I toss and turn.

Tortured by visions

of where I should be.

The lies told to the minds which choose to believe them.

Sometimes we think we know what we want.

Then we get into situations that we believe resemble what we want.

As time goes, and we start exploring what we are in, we realise it’s not quite where we want to be.

Maybe we have changed our minds.

Want more.

Want less.

She is lying on your chest now.

Her body supposedly in this moment.

Her mind, however, is fighting demons.

Trying to forget the one before you

She lies there. Hoping your body will transport her, for a while.

She moans and groans. Hoping to drown any thoughts of him.

The other person in this room.

She needed a place to stay tonight.

Too soon to have another body in her bed.

Hasn’t even had a chance to change pillows from the last time.

She lets you touch her preciousness.

She feels nothing. But wants to you carry on regardless.

Tears streaming down her face.

The embarrassment.

He puts his hand on her chin.

Lifts up her face up till their eyes meet.

She believes what is there. 

Deep down in shallow pools of brightness,

As she tries to wash away the sad spread between her legs.

She hides behind her hands.

Her eyes cannot take the brightness.

She opens her mouth to protest.

Nothing comes out. She retreats.

He keeps on coming towards her.

His arms stretched towards her.

The brightness. 

‘Heaviness is shattering. Colour is lost in its folds’, these thoughts don’t leave her. 

She needed somewhere to pass time. 

No need for pity.

writer’s block

Behind closed doors..name in lights

They don’t get to see

the tears,

the sweat

that goes into pouring one’s soul onto the page

for the prestige

of seeing your name in lights.

Out in the open,

they see what I let them see:

the sunny disposition,

the right look,

the comedic pauses…

What they don’t know

is that when the sun goes down

under flickering lights,

doubt sows madness

leaving me wondering.

When I think I have had enough

the book closes itself

like water running

down to my outstretched hand.

Sometimes, though the anxiety leads me to poetry…