Friday, 30 October 2015

When I was younger, I used to ask my mother how is it that we feel alone even when there are so many people in this world.

I

I walk like fire till my feet turn to ash
It does not matter if the world beneath me burns
I do not care if the steps spill my blood,
My spit turning to acid, words melt my insides
I can no longer swallow the shit that is happening
My heartbeats up in flames, the soul boiling
Under the heat of my own being
I live like fire till my days turn to ash.

II

Cry, if the world hurts you, cry like a fucking
Waterfall, and cry till those around can see you
Drowning in your own sorrow; please don’t
Pretend to be strong for anyone, aren’t we all
Starting to look like iron men and women who
Have forgotten what their hearts sounded like
Aren’t we wounded souls wandering underneath
Distracted bodies teaching our children
Never to cry?

III

Oh god, please be kind to one another
You are not ice, you are not a walking blade,
You are not the pointed pistol, or the big stick,
You are not thorns, you are not a fist, a punch
You are not a rational intellectualizing all-
knowing emotionless fucking machine
And you don’t have to be
You are a warm smile, you are a tight hug
You are the stranger who can understand
You are the lover who can listen, you are the
Thing that can break when others crumble
You are so full of love, you are kind
You are nothing like what they tell you you are
You are everything you want to be
You are one person
But hand in hand with everyone else
You are the fucking world.

Monday, 19 October 2015

Oh dear, what a shame it is to not have the heads turn
As I enter the bus in awe of my flawless beauty
The shining face, the kohl smeared eyes, the ripped out
Hairless flesh of my legs, and smooth touch of my hands
No woman will wish her daughter to be like me
For all I know, I’d be one of those young people
That make her look so damn sexy at forty eight;
No man will desire the fool who does not hide her legs
Sprouting with hair as wild as her heart, my head with
As less hair as the damn worthy of all the passers-by
Who, I am told, will decide the course of my life,
Oh dear mommy, I am a walking tragedy.

But what will you do when I go waltzing down the
Streets of Vienna in hot pants and spaghetti tops
And when I would have dyed my hair red, and adopted
Baby kittens displaying their loving scratches like
Constellations tattooed on my skin and not wear black to
Hide my tummy and pick any dress out of my wardrobe without
Spending a full 30 minutes wondering if what I wear
Will please every person who I may or may not pass
On the street? What will you do when I will find a partner
Who loves me when you had your bets on that I wouldn’t
Because, oh what a mess I am and still will be, and what will
You do when my eyes have laughter lines from all the
Shits I didn’t give about the millions of people I should
Have given a shit about;
Will I still be your walking tragedy?