We sit on a rock,
overlooking someone's fields
and pretend we are somewhere far
not just a few blocks away from home
It's Cinderella-like the way it happens.
The lush reeds turn to palm trees
fertile farmlands into sandy beaches
A sad attempt to accomodate our imagination.

I know we have always been too big for this country,
but right now it reeks of desperation.

So we look to the skies for validation
but in the dam we find motivation
from the water that flows without a destination.

"Does it hope to become  river?", we wonder.
If it hopes to grow from it's  current state.
Like a butterfly from a catterpillar.
Is it's movement a show of faith?
That the reeds and plants will open
and clear a path  for it's murky waters.
This is why the dam feels like home:

Though we can't see our reflections,
the dam is able to reflect our ambition
to succeed regardless of our location.

I only became free
when I lost my sense of grammar
when I forgot how to punctuate
and I didn't follow a rhyme scheme.
I let the letters place themselves
and the words chose themselves
the poetry wrote itself
problems solved themselves
my heart healed itself

I became free when I finally learned
that the poetry is not in perfection
but in the broken words that lie on the page
delivered by my ink-stained hands
from a broken soul and an imperfect heart.
I was only free when I realised
that the broken and imperfect words
made up the perfect poem.
Made up the perfect me.

          


They're in my bed and in my head
they hold me when I'm scared
not to comfort or make me feel better
but to let me know they are always with me
Wherever I go, wherever I hide
they're always by my side.

The monsters are so slimy and slick
they hide themselves in my textbooks
disguising themselves as history
and facts and stats when in fact they've distorted
the truth and are using it to trap me
in a live of servitude and poverty
while they spend the fruits of my labour
on voyages to faraway lands filled with splendor.
The monsters are not under my bed
they live in the wings of the patriotic bird.

The monsters live amongst the paperwork
that litters the cupboards in their fort
while their gates keep lost souls out.
They look down on real people
with real dreams and ambitions
and they judge us for our ability
to admit that our current location
has no infrastructure to make a provision
for futures as bright as ours.
The monsters are not under my bed
they inside the insensitive embassies
and call themselves immigration policies.

The monsters were never under my bed
they looked down upon my black face
and decided that poverty was my fate
then they left work and got on a jet
for a vacation in the beautiful land of Sheiks
and expected me to roll over and play dead
but instead like a champion I held up my head
and continued to claim my share
of the wealth they stole from my land
and made them wish they lived under my bed.
while I carried their heads on a stake.

Your kind of love is different
It is peace and serenity in the midst of insecurity
it is wisdom in silence and always selfless.
While others slay the dragons with their swords
You lull them to sleep then gently lay them at your feet.

I feel the violence and war in other people's souls
I hear their raging battles even before they speak

But when I see you  so safe and secure
while the angry storm rages all around you
Your beatiful soul radiating peace and love
I feel myself drawing closer and closer
till you wrap your arms around my shivering heart
and their warmth chases the cold reality away
and I am free to lay my head on your chest
for as long as my battered body needs to rest

And that's where I decide to make my home
In your beautiful , tranquil house of peace.