Pockets

A day at a time

A tear that will dry

There is a reason,

There is a season

But still there is despair

A hug to say all is fine

A word of encouragement

To calm a racing mind

But there will still be that moment

Hands in pockets, and emptiness felt

Such is a revisiting sorrow

That comes in waves

Such is a daunting anxiety

That comes uninvited

Such is the guilt felt

For shifting the mood

So I ask that you bear with me

You jolly soul, best friend, confidant

One day it may be well

One day the pockets may be filled

With something other than emptiness

Something worth remembering,

Something that will carve a smile

Blues

In a world of chaos

Some are choosing their blues

The big ones, the little ones

And they ponder in recluse

So be wary and considerate

That you know not their fate

For some have slept

Only to wake and walk

Walking, but not existing

For some have dreamt

A thousand dreams, yet still sulk

Moping in misery

And for some, they are hoping

For a glimpse of a miracle

Hands clasped tightly

As they mumble prayers of petition

And as for the writer,

She cries out for reassurance

Tonight, feeling weighted more

By the littlest of blues

My black sunglasses

Legon Botanical Gardens. Circa 2018

There are so many eyes on me

So many stares, so many labels

There’s something about black

Black sunglasses

Boosted confidence?

Possibly

Black to go with everything?

Definitely

Protection from harmful sun rays?

Guaranteed

But none of these is the reason

For my copping of a pair

For as timeless as they may have made me out to be

There was something that I didn’t want the world to see

Walls

The Rear

Meeting I

Meeting I, in solitude,

I was not happy.

Meeting I, in tears,

I was down in spirits.

Meeting I, in nothingness

I was feeling unworthy.

Meeting I was pain,

I wanted to hug my being.

Meeting I was sympathy,

I wanted to lend reassurance.

Meeting I, I needed to be found,

Because they, they deserted I. 

Meeting I was crucial,

Because I needed rediscovery.

ALL SHE IS, WAS NOT ALL SHE WAS

Angst followed behind her

And promised to solemnize misery

He taunted, as she suppressed the nerves

And all she is, was not all she was.

 

Her heart thumped at the mention of her name

Her mind, as void as the genesis

The invisible leash latched on her

And her hands betrayed her calm

 

Eyes watching, pierced like needles

And she spoke each time with haste heightened.

As though trying not to drown,

As though slowly sinking in quick sand.

 

Oh she fought, but so fragilely,

And she wanted to conquer

But her broken self, she could not mend,

Her voice begged for sympathy.

 

All she is, she was not,

Angst, he took his bow.

 

 

 

 

 

These Four Walls, and Me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the thinking cap is brimful,

I seize the deceiving lifeline they offer.

They hint at the cold world beyond

So I fixate, and the dark clouds appear

Slashing because pain is pleasure

No roses, no well-wishes

Just these four walls, and me.

 

So I close my eyes and play out the scenes,

How words cut deeper than the sharpest edge,

Head buried in my palms, happy I can’t be.

So I give to myself, what I deserve

Slashing because pain is healing,

No hugs, no reassuring faces 

Just these four walls, and me.

 

When too much is indeterminable,

I sit in my blood bath.

Carving scars like I’m making a masterpiece,

Adding to the collection, like it’s some hobby,

Slashing because pain is unreal

No light in my world, no more zeal for life

Just these four walls, and me

 

When I go six feet under,

They will remember.

Autumn leaves on my grave, a reminder,

Of what was once upright, green with colour

A tree, once tall, no more it stands.

No more life, there was no love,

When it was four walls, and me.