#spoken-word
I was
once potent, now soft
then twisted suddenly
like a baby thrown aloft
"Pull!"
and then shot
bad habits, tendencies
thinking about money
when I haven't got a lot
I used to think I was
pretty good looking
but
my self esteem took a knock
life is about finding your rock
I am
scarred, dangerous
and outright harmless
when I'm stressed out
my love turns me to calmness
overrated like chrome
a blade lacking in sharpness
turning away from peace
and reverting to the darkness
never liked change
always afraid of taking chances
thought I needed help
but I guess that I'm past it
looking for a home because
I was told it's where the heart is
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
Hey kid, you've been dead a few weeks and I'd just like to say hello. The ground has its first December coat of fragile snow over your dead body and I know you can't feel the cold but I'll tell you right now, I can see my frozen toes, just barely move them, breathe up into the sky, Id be lying if I said I still cry every day. But, I'm lying to myself if I said that I'm not trying to take back your pain every day in a way that won't make your heart start beating again.
I wonder if those butterflies ever drank up the nectar from your blood, probed their soft tongues into the velvet of your cuts, those razor blade ribbons, oh holy romantic, how you bleed like Mozart and bleed like ballads of classic rock stars, how they whip your face with sour sweat and drugs and drugs and drugs until you find yourself half asleep, brain swept under the rug.
Did you know only 1.5% of drug overdose related suicide attempts are successful? Beautiful blonde martyr for an ugly catholic high school in an ugly state in the ugliest of its hearts, how does it feel to be 1 in 100? How does it feel to be a rarity, carbon pressed into diamond? How does it feel to be cry for a week, left in the grass to roll like waves, buried without a name and a face and a grave?
In the latest of solemn sleep deprived nights I press my ear to the chest of the 100th depressed boy I come across and don't feel Vicodin climbing up his arteries, don't feel Klonopin, OxyContin, Ibuprofen. I can't seem to find the one, who knows, maybe you were it and all my efforts really were wasted. All those nights I've stayed up late did nothing. All those knives I stole, all that blood I wiped away with t-shirt sleeves, all the blankets I've put around stupid shaking shoulders, all the bittersweet will this be the last time your skin is this warm hugs, God did they mean nothing at all?
I lock my jaw into a permanent silence, buy back time by putting my money where your knife is. I take bets on when someone will die next. I read the label on every bottle of Xanax. I roll over in my bed again and again, and try to put you to rest again.
Amen.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
Strange nights, starry eyes
a little something to keep me going
no I don't lack in surprise
or modesty
and yet if honesty was a commodity
I'd surely be rich and living it up
or dead in a ditch for never giving it up
and you just don't quit
pry away the drink from my hands
and take a sip
never seen anyone
bite anything
the way that you bite on your lip
I don't know what you're looking for
but you won't find it in me
a compliment, a shred of decency
a night of thrills and secrecy
a shoulder to cry on
or just something to ride on
no, you won't find it in me
Got no money, no worries
don't sell drugs
never felt the need
not a pick me up
or shake you down
nothing changes when I'm around
no I don't want you
and you don't want me
Living life like a grazed knee
the pain is always there it stings
something always has to rub up on me
so if another stained garment
is what you want to be then, darling
pick away at my layers
I can never seem to heal
but I go on like nothing hurts me
and it could be worse
you could be just another verse in my poetry
and the night isn't over yet but
you've just about heard enough I bet
I don't know what you're looking for
but you won't find it in me
a friend for the night, a happy ending
a story to tell your girls, a heart for mending
someone to rely on
or just something to ride on
no, you won't find it in me
Got no money, no worries
don't sell drugs
never felt the need
not a pick me up
or shake you down
nothing changes when I'm around
no I don't want you
and you don't want me
Still relentless in your advances
but I can't take any chances
I'm susceptible to heartbreak
why do you think I'm sat here drinking alone?
unlike you I haven't looked down at a phone
I've no one to call, I've nowhere to be
if you're wanting a simpleton that's not me
I'm not offering late night comfort calls
I don't even own a settee
are you my therapist now?
too many questions are detrimental to trust
and I think you've just about heard enough
I don't know what you're looking for
but you won't find it in me
won't pick you up, won't shake you down
won't show you a good time and stick around
I'm not your wings to fly on
or just something to ride on
no, you won't find it in me
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
i just want to go some place nice,
somewhere the sky is pretty- like you.
i want to be like you.
you know, i have a lot to give to the world i just-
don’t know what it is yet.
but i’ll get there. i promise i’ll get there.
until then my heart will be in that pretty place
there, the trees will be tall,
and it will always feel like autumn. warm,
but cool. and the leaves
will always be in those orange-red hues,
the water will stay so clear and blue, that
you will see little minnows when
you dip your toes into the creek.
i’m not used to living on the edge, i’m just living
and that’s alright with me,
because i don’t want to be someone
i am not.
i am careful.
i am not reckless.
in that pretty place, the sweet little people
will be in their sweet little homes.
although, some of them will not be home they
will just be in a house.
a house they wish was a home,
but it can’t be because
home is where the heart is and as pretty as that
little place is,
their hearts are not there.
their hearts, like mine, are elsewhere.
perhaps with the stars and their blinking lights,
or at the bottom of the sea,
where the pebbles are rough beneath your toes,
and you try to hold your breath forever
because you are no longer
in the shallows.
you are somewhere deeper.
i want to go some place the water is deeper,
and the people think clearly
through all of the fog
and it’s all pretty
like you.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
Oxygen is precious
and I continue to waste it
contemplating life
and the decisions I make in it
but I can't decide if it's
sadness or anger I'm filled with
I clench my jaw constantly
and I cry in my sleep
don't know what I'm worth
every day I'm reminded I'm weak
decisions decisions, a lack of ambition
or rather the strength to acquire
what I desire and I know
life is truly a lustrous haze
My soul wants to dance
whilst my heart wants to fight
inflicting pain on others
only to lessen my strife
my mind is a complex maze of thought
thinking we were gifted with intelligence
but now I get it, it's a curse to see
understand, realise and go on knowingly
that life is hard and the world is not fair
well I realised it young
so I can admit that I'm scared
the people that comforted me,
stood by my side, seem unaware
I hope people see something in me
because I don't
I see pain filled eyes when I wash my face
I connect with a reflection
that has felt my pain
I doubt everyone else is different
we're all ashamed
the circumstances differ but
the pain is the same
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
Please don’t study for 21 hours and sleep only for 3,
Please don’t worry yourself into a panic about deadlines,
Please don’t lose yourself while worrying about the whole **** world,
Please don’t.
Pamper yourself, get that bubble bath,
Go buy a pint of ice-cream and watch that thing you like,
Block people who are negative, put photos up of your friends,
Self-care is important.
- Me, learning after a semester of breakdowns and lost hope.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
Relationships don’t have to be romantic for them to be beautiful.
It’s those little things about you that they remember because they’ve actually paid attention.
A mention of painful shoes and they know which one it is.
A mention of a specific friend and they remember me talking about them.
A complaint about a sad day and them knowing how to make me feel better.
These things seem so little, but they are so much.
They are the culmination of something you started a while back,
The realization that they like you as much as you like them,
Things don’t have to be romantic for them to be perfect,
They just need to, well, be.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
Hey guys, I used Soundcloud to speak this last poem, please check it out:
https://seshatwuji.wordpress.com/2015/03/14/mythweaving-our-way-to-happiness/
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
There is a snack size container of peanut butter sitting in the pantry
And I'm sitting across the room but I can feel it's weight as acutely as my own
I checked the package three times, hoping the numbers would change when i returned
282
282
282 calories
I'm having a panic attack over a snack because the one thing I crave more than anything else in the world is the sticky, nutty taste of JIF brand peanut butter of which I am undeserving
My grandmother loved peanut butter
So much that they had to hide it from her if they wanted any hope of a satisfactory sandwich
My mom hid food too
Stole it like kiss after kiss
Sneaking cookies from the houses where she babysat
Getting crumbs on her swelling chest in the dark embrace of her teenage bedroom
A buffet for one
And now I'm in my grandmothers house
Hoping that there's peanut butter in heaven
Because here there's just photographs and the lingering scent of her Chanel number 5 perfume
Like mother, like daughter, like granddaughter they say
You can trace my family line as easily as the stretch marks that litter our bodies
But I am breaking the cycle by falling into my own
I have learned that hunger pangs are better than the climbing figures on the scale
So I lift a glass of water to my lips
And I leave the peanut butter in the pantry so no one will ever have to hide food from me
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
Have the shatering cries awoken you
Have the conscientious thoughts split you in two
Or will you shrug and let it pass
Mumbling silent "I'm glad it aint my ***
Contradicting morales give us hope
Dangling in view like a transparent rope
Instead of taking action we hessitate, stall
All the whille letting the person below fall
I however, will not run from the fight
Face down the darkness even in the shadow o f the night
I will be there to say "Hey miss,
Why are you crying
Is it cuz of all the people dying
Don't worry it won't be long
One day they will hear our sad song
They will realize what went wrong
For humanity will see us through
This I promise you"
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
I.
Let me tell you right now that red is my favourite colour
But I got it on with blue, some would say that that’s a blunder
I wonder is… infidelity the vibe of this poem?
Some secret guilt in my mind, that I’ve decided to be owning
Up to, I've got to, spill it out of my heart
I've had no idea what to say, but I've commited to start
A statement that’s an indictment to romantic commitment-
So let’s face it: when it comes to love, haven't all of us been sinning?
At some point, nobody can claim to never ever have smirked
At their own version of the colour red in hoping that it might work
Even though your girl’s colour is blue and you know that this much is true…
You kinda now desire sunsets instead of plain skies; and thus seek a more maroon hue
Skies change with the sun, time influences that
But listen, honestly, what I feel, it’s deeper than that
Blue and red seem only to be opposite colours of the visible spectrum
But actually flow into one another, from point A to B, like a pendulum
So my real problem is denial: I'm not really interested in swinging back
Because whenever I see red again…I can't help thinking that blue is just a fade to black.
And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…
II.
Literature taught me that cheating is immoral but understandable
From the point of Gatsby and Daisy it’s not even that reprehensible
The thing is, I still see the American Dream in another colour
No red, white and blue and great starry flag of wonder
But being honest to the context I should only omit the white
And keep red and blue; so it follows that my greed is merely self-directed spite
In this way I am suggesting a hint of hatred towards myself
As I’m unable to colour-block my view of my colourless self
I mean that I'm disappointed in being able to reduce
Myself to old, novel characters…as a result I have deduced
That blue and red don't matter when my true colours are grey
I’m ashamed in having even having tried (and failed) to pick (just one).
But all the same…
Skies change with the sun, time influences that
But listen, honestly, what I feel, it’s deeper than that
Blue and red seem only to be opposite colours of the visible spectrum
But actually flow into one another, from point A to B, like a pendulum
So my real problem is denial: I'm not really interested in swinging back
Because whenever I see red again…I can't help thinking that blue is just a fade to black.
And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…
And black scares me because it represents…
III.
Though I'm still wishing that… her sunset becomes my sunrise, and envelops the sky
But regretting… her blue fades away, painfully, I’m left to die
As the sun will too soon turn to night, driving me to gentle panic
I know this now: colourless people always beg for a rainbow because they can never have it.
******
I apologize to blue for making her feel even bluer.
I apologize to red for using her to make me feel better.
I’m sorry to myself for making myself so bitter.
So suddenly has my soul, become colder than this winter...
Thus the part of the poem where I conclude with the theme
Of the echoes within me which of course are only dead dreams
I had looked to you, red and/or blue, in hoping you could redeem
Me to your world of colour. But present reality is different, which can only mean
That...
Skies changed with the sun, time influenced that
But listen, honestly, what I felt, was deeper than that
Blue and red seemed only to be opposite colours of the visible spectrum
But actually flowed into one another, from point A to B, like a pendulum
So my real problem was denial, I wasn't really interested in swinging back
Because whenever I saw red again… I couldn't help thinking that blue was just a fade to black.
And black scared me because it represented…
And black scared me because it represented…
And black scared me because it represented…
And black scared me because it represented…
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
i’m not another ****** card for your deck
and bothering and trying is just
another leap off a possible cliff except you have a blindfold around your eyes
you may not know this
but its cutting into your skin
and the drops in mood seem steeper each time i return to this rabbit hole, just before it gets too dark
is it really worth trying so hard on a continuous basis when your wings have been clipped ages ago
why do we even bother
then again why am i speaking on behalf of you?
why do i even bother
it’s always thunderstorms and rain with an occasional glimpse of sunshine that seems to be a welcoming party for the hurricane
to think that i manage to mask my emotions so well i’m nearly fooled into thinking the same frightens me a bit
take for granted to an extent i’ve become indifferent despite the fact it’s still behind my eyes
close to malfunctioning but i can’t get it out of my system
it’s like grasping sand in your palms and all you can do is observe as each grain slips from between your fingers - a great descent
it’s just the reoccurring feel of never being good enough i do suppose
whatever y’know
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
She used to stand on the tips of her toes so she could kiss my cheek.
I've cherished these memories through and through and while there is no digital proof that our love ever existed, I remember that September with an indespensible fondness.
But I feel these memories fading away. Slipping through my fingers like wet clay and each night that passes I can spend one less moment of the day recalling how your lips felt against mine...
...or thinking of how I could gaze into your eyes for the better parts of eons, but we are all peons of fate and our innate sense of duty pulls us from the things we are drawn to.
It is then that I remember that you were not taken away, how you chose to leave and that is okay.
In my agony over the loss of someone who's name no longer clings to my lips, I chose to cling to your hips and not let go.
I know better now, but I was afraid.
The memories we shared grow ever harder to remember, but that September you reminded me what love was.
It was fleeting and it was depleting, but I no longer find myself needing your touch.
I let go and I already know that you did so long ago,
but it stills brings a smile to my face when I recall how you stood on your the tips of your toes so you could kiss me,
I suppose even angels need someone to look up to.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
We're not all the stuff of legends and fairy tales. We do try sometimes but we more often then not are doomed to fail, because being held to a standard that you're better than human is a hard burden to bear.
We don't all have the natural dramatic flair that makes us fare just that much better on the stage - But whether or not we will ever be like Aladdin, we rub every lamp just in case.
In the face of overwhelming improbality, we still find a way to get ourselves to say 'Maybe this time, it'll be different. Maybe the innocent will not suffer and maybe this time they'll catch the bad guy'.
Who am I to dream? Who am I to make more out of something than what would first seem? Every one of these stitches and seams that run across our bodies like patchwork, every scar from every time we've gone to far or raised the bar, they are ours to wear with pride.
Just because something has been denied to you is no reason not to seek it again, but this twicefold. I may not be Rumplestiltskin but I'm going to keep trying to turn this straw to gold - because the dreams that come to us are ours to hold. Ours to clutch to our chest lest they grow cold.
It is because of these mistakes that we are where we are. When you fail, if you can re-trail what you did wrong all the way back to core of the problem, then you've got experience to store away until next time. I only learned to rhyme like I do through the impromptu misteps that we are all going to go through. And you will learn to be better.
Every, single, letter that goes into writing one of these little soliloquies has to come out like a summer breeze or they should not be put down. You can't squeeze your brain like a grape hoping that pure wine is going to come out. Inspiration comes from the funniest places and I guess you could say that you've been inspirin' me but there is still fire in me to temper the metal.
And I know I'm not going to get a medal for this, otherwise I'd probably do it more often. But each and every one of you needs to know that it is only through challenge and adversity that we grow into these monoliths we hope we one day become. If you can manage to stay strong, live long and keep is simple your whole life through... who knows? - Maybe they'll write the next fairy tales about you.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
The monster in my closet is not the
Lord of the Flies or the way I hiccup at
the mention of tombstones like picket fences
or the Bible I have sitting on back burner, waiting and
turning to ash as I switch my focus elsewhere;
it is my freedom, it is my voice, it is my vulnerability.
I have found that the true steps to being a woman are
One:
To never say “no” to a man: he is right, he is infinite;
Man, with a capital “M,” is Right with a capital “R.”
I must find my place beneath his boot and be
grateful for the attention. I must offer myself to him
on a silver platter and ****** my wrists back when
he latches on like leeches in ponds—
innocence is necessary but experience is a must.
I need only to serve him and serve him well.
Dinner will be ready by five.
Two:
After snapping my fingers and throwing on an apron
I need only to make shopping lists and fold laundry
and wash dishes and dust coffee tables and
***** train toddlers and begin the ironing—I must
become a less troublesome Lucy, and as Sylvia said,
become the place from where the arrow
shoots off from; my husband will be the
arrow into the future
the bright light at the end of the tunnel
the brains, if you will,
ask him all your silly intellectual questions,
goodness me, how would I know anything
outside of homemaking?
Three:
While living in the Valley of the Dolls,
it is important to play the part precisely because
anything less than the best is a catastrophe—
this isn’t suburbia this is su-Barbie-a where
women are beautiful and poised, plastic in shells
with skin as cold as the freezers they keeps their words
in. Your businessman of a husband will come home from
work at quarter to five and say,
“silence is golden,”
as he pats your daughter on the head,
and you will not know to which one of you
he is communicating with because,
yes, of course, he is in charge of the vocal cords, being
stronger and smarter than the two of you; it is only
logical to accept his words as law. Besides,
neither you nor your daughter really deserves the
right to not only speak when spoken to; girls have
silly and inconsequential ideas anyway.
Four:
I must give myself up for love. A woman without
a single altruistic bone in her body is
not a woman at all, but rather a shadow. In order to
prove myself, prove my loyalty, prove anything, I must
first prove my heart. At age eighteen, I will go backstage
for a costume change: graduation gown to wedding gown.
Don’t worry, Mother, he told me that college is overrated;
he told me that the only other education I will need
lies within homemaking skills—the easy life, don’t you see?
Love is my biggest flaw and greatest weapon, and
I must learn to wield it.
Five:
But without a man, nothing is possible. Catching
one like fish in nets is the goal, but in order to do so,
it is imperative that I realize that
beauty is not deeper than skin; beauty is pliable like bamboo
and is only prevalent when it is in paint. I must become
Wendy, I must stay in Neverland, I
must
not
age.
It is important to look young but not to act young.
It is even more important for my ribs to break
through my flesh—my beginning will be my end
but at least I’ll look good.
I am not afraid of the dark or of heights or
of storms or of doctors or dogs; I am
afraid of time reversing, I am afraid of
returning normalities. That fifteen-year-old girl
I saw post online about how she was
“born in the wrong decade” and how she would be
a “much better fit for the ‘50s” scares me to death.
If I was expected to choose between
career and family,
I would sit at the bottom of the
fig tree like Sylvia;
I would stick my head
right in the oven.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC