Don't waste your days away
write bad poetry
I mean absolute garbage
and draw stick figures
with squiggly lines
and paint with your fingers
and laugh when you ****
and blame someone else
for the terrible smell
and sing and scream
whenever your driving
to wherever you may be driving to
and stay up too late
and get up tired
and nap
and sleep through church
or at church
and snore really loud
and day dream
and live dreams
and when the nightmares come
enjoy the fear and the rush
and the pouring sweat
on your forward
as you wake up screaming
but don't look out the window
because there isn't anything
out there that is more scary
than your imagination
and make a deal with the devil
and cheat him his dues
and leave a rubber corpse
on your death bed
and live another day
and out run the sun
and give a butterfly the moon
in exchange for
the hidden treasure map
painted on its wings
and hang that map in the sky
to cover the hole
where the moon used to be
and don't worry
no one will notice
because they look exactly the same
and ask the stars politely
not to tell anyone
and don't forget to say please
and thank you
for stars never ignore a request
for a favor that is asked
with a manner of grace and kindness
and build sandcastles
to close to the shoreline
and watch the waves
wash the towers and walls away
and listen to the mist giggle
at the mischief it has done
and fold a boat
out of the song
no one else can hear
and give your hopes and prayers
to the wind
and sail away
and find yourself
and lose yourself
and give time and love
your full attention
and no matter
how bad things may ever get
or how good things may ever be
I will always be a fool
and a dreamer
and a magic bean believer
and I'll write you bad poetry
really bad
absolute garbage
whenever you need
because I can't think
of any better way
to waste my days away

I'm almost twenty, you know.
I mean, I'm sure you don't care
but i'm almost twenty years old.
And I'm trying.
To be all the things you said i would be
and I'm not going to question
all the rules you've set out for me
because i need that foreboding affirmation of love so just know that I'm never gonna leave.
Because were it not for you, who would i be?
But I'm also struggling
To figure out if I am actually a talented artist
Or just some teenage kid going through stuff. i need
To see the answers at the back of the book of Life if there's such a thing
I feel. Oh Lord! I feel tired already. Like i could quit
But i can't I'm already nineteen years into this ****.
And I'm already tryna make people take me seriously.
And I'm trying.
To pretend that i understand why old people are so entitled to an earth that might actually be revolting against the human race
That i know, why it is super ultra important to be the kind of feminist that is kind to misogynists
That i even want, to be part of an existence that so closely resembles a shitshow
That i even know, how to turn my feelings into a proper rhyme. I don't.
Honestly and i don't care.
So i won't even try
to pretend that woke mans are not the ****
and that i don't think, gay people deserve peace
and that I don't wish, child marriages was something i could fix
and that i don't think, that I'm going to marry an intersectional feminist
and that i don't think, that instead of vows he's going to recite to me his poetry
and that i actually need you to tell me that these are all teenage fantasies.
I don't. I've had nineteen years of this ****.
And i’m just glad i don't have to pretend
That i love pink , i do even though i wish i didn't
And that i know i can take nineteen more years if only it means
More badly written poetry from beautifully imperfect teens
And more African literature and Twitter  and sleep
More discussions with bae about the importance of memes
More inventive ways to show bae i exist.
I might be getting carried away but you see what i mean.
That i want everything this life has to give
Just no struggles. no pretence.no assumptions. and no guilt.

On and on, I go, following the flow to wherever it settles me. There I wait for yet another wave to carry me, someplace else, another awaiting adventure destined for the blank pages of my scripts. Gradually, it becomes rather sane to be teleported in-between worlds, and never quite ending stories, tasteless poems, and on good days, hit songs.

Most times, unfortunately, it's the ever-there pain of the past that make it to these pages. And no matter  how much I have tried, seemingly all that is meant to be forgotten and buried, finds a way to live on As words on pages. Without hesitation, it's a skewed opinion to take away, the heaviness and beauty of such creations, disregarding an amount of agony carried within.

On better days, we find ways, to paint the happiness, so It could be shared to those in need of comfort and a little bit of love, which is mostly us. Apparently, it only lasts a breath, then away it goes, to be sighted once again. When it's good it's going great, air is fresh and alive. Words dance then, sometimes calmly, step by step as if waltzing to a classic lady in red jam.