I woke up normally
Past the time everyone else had risen
I had eaten breakfast
Lunch
Dinner
Just like everyone else
My brain had been focused on technology all day
Cell phone
Computer
Television
Like normal
My day was normal just like always
Until you told me the bad news
Then my day shattered
Broken
Irreparable
Damaged
Now I can’t stop the abnormal tears
Or the abnormal shudders that course through my body even as the heat is on full blast
This is why I like normality
But no matter how many times I build up my daily normality
It always falls apart again
And again
And again.

Being set on the idea
Of getting to Atlantis,
You have discovered of course
Only the Ship of Fools is
Making the voyage this year,
As gales of abnormal force
Are predicted, and that you
Must therefore be ready to
Behave absurdly enough
To pass for one of The Boys,
At least appearing to love
Hard liquor, horseplay and noise.

Should storms, as may well happen,
Drive you to anchor a week
In some old harbour-city
Of Ionia, then speak
With her witty scholars, men
Who have proved there cannot be
Such a place as Atlantis:
Learn their logic, but notice
How its subtlety betrays
Their enormous simple grief;
Thus they shall teach you the ways
To doubt that you may believe.

If, later, you run aground
Among the headlands of Thrace,
Where with torches all night long
A naked barbaric race
Leaps frenziedly to the sound
Of conch and dissonant gong:
On that stony savage shore
Strip off your clothes and dance, for
Unless you are capable
Of forgetting completely
About Atlantis, you will
Never finish your journey.

Again, should you come to gay
Carthage or Corinth, take part
In their endless gaiety;
And if in some bar a ****,
As she strokes your hair, should say
"This is Atlantis, dearie,"
Listen with attentiveness
To her life-story: unless
You become acquainted now
With each refuge that tries to
Counterfeit Atlantis, how
Will you recognise the true?

Assuming you beach at last
Near Atlantis, and begin
That terrible trek inland
Through squalid woods and frozen
Thundras where all are soon lost;
If, forsaken then, you stand,
Dismissal everywhere,
Stone and now, silence and air,
O remember the great dead
And honour the fate you are,
Travelling and tormented,
Dialectic and bizarre.

Stagger onward rejoicing;
And even then if, perhaps
Having actually got
To the last col, you collapse
With all Atlantis shining
Below you yet you cannot
Descend, you should still be proud
Even to have been allowed
Just to peep at Atlantis
In a poetic vision:
Give thanks and lie down in peace,
Having seen your salvation.

All the little household gods
Have started crying, but say
Good-bye now, and put to sea.
Farewell, my dear, farewell: may
Hermes, master of the roads,
And the four dwarf Kabiri,
Protect and serve you always;
And may the Ancient of Days
Provide for all you must do
His invisible guidance,
Lifting up, dear, upon you
The light of His countenance.

[Greek: Mellonta  sauta’]

These things are in the future.

Sophocles—’Antig.’

‘Una.’

“Born again?”

‘Monos.’

Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, “born again.” These were
the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long
pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood,
until Death itself resolved for me the secret.

‘Una.’

Death!

‘Monos.’

How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I
observe, too, a vacillation in your step, a joyous
inquietude in your eyes. You are confused and oppressed by
the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was of
Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts,
throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!

‘Una.’

Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often,
Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its
nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human
bliss, saying unto it, “thus far, and no farther!” That
earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our
bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen
with its strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts
the dread of that evil hour which was hurrying to separate
us forever! Thus in time it became painful to love. Hate
would have been mercy then.

‘Monos’.

Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una—mine, mine
forever now!

‘Una’.

But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have
much to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I
burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the
dark Valley and Shadow.

‘Monos’.

And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in
vain? I will be minute in relating all, but at what point
shall the weird narrative begin?

‘Una’.

At what point?

‘Monos’.

You have said.

‘Una’.

Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the
propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say,
then, commence with the moment of life’s cessation—but
commence with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having
abandoned you, you sank into a breathless and motionless
torpor, and I pressed down your pallid eyelids with the
passionate fingers of love.

‘Monos’.

One word first, my Una, in regard to man’s general condition
at this epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise
among our forefathers—wise in fact, although not in
the world’s esteem—had ventured to doubt the propriety
of the term “improvement,” as applied to the progress of our
civilization. There were periods in each of the five or six
centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those
principles whose truth appears now, to our disenfranchised
reason, so utterly obvious —principles which should
have taught our race to submit to the guidance of the
natural laws rather than attempt their control. At long
intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each
advance in practical science as a retrogradation in the true
utility. Occasionally the poetic intellect—that
intellect which we now feel to have been the most exalted of
all—since those truths which to us were of the most
enduring importance could only be reached by that analogy
which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone,
and to the unaided reason bears no weight—occasionally
did this poetic intellect proceed a step farther in the
evolving of the vague idea of the philosophic, and find in
the mystic parable that tells of the tree of knowledge, and
of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant
condition of his soul. And these men—the poets—
living and perishing amid the scorn of the
“utilitarians”—of rough pedants, who arrogated to
themselves a title which could have been properly applied
only to the scorned—these men, the poets, pondered
piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when our
wants were not more simple than our enjoyments were
keen—days when mirth was a word unknown, so
solemnly deep-toned was happiness—holy, august, and
blissful days, blue rivers ran undammed, between hills
unhewn, into far forest solitudes, primeval, odorous, and
unexplored. Yet these noble exceptions from the general
misrule served but to strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we
had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil days. The
great “movement”—that was the cant term—went on:
a diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art—the
Arts—arose supreme, and once enthroned, cast chains
upon the intellect which had elevated them to power. Man,
because he could not but acknowledge the majesty of Nature,
fell into childish exultation at his acquired and still-
increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked
a God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over
him. As might be supposed from the origin of his disorder,
he grew infected with system, and with abstraction. He
enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other odd ideas,
that of universal equality gained ground; and in the face of
analogy and of God—in despite of the loud warning
voice of the laws of gradation so visibly pervading
all things in Earth and Heaven—wild attempts at an
omniprevalent Democracy were made. Yet this evil sprang
necessarily from the leading evil, Knowledge. Man could not
both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking cities arose,
innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath of
furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the
ravages of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una,
even our slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-
fetched might have arrested us here. But now it appears that
we had worked out our own destruction in the ******* of
our taste, or rather in the blind neglect of its
culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this crisis
that taste alone—that faculty which, holding a middle
position between the pure intellect and the moral sense,
could never safely have been disregarded—it was now
that taste alone could have led us gently back to Beauty, to
Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure contemplative
spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the [Greek:
mousichae]  which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!—since
both were most desperately needed, when both were most
entirely forgotten or despised. Pascal, a philosopher whom
we both love, has said, how truly!—”Que tout notre
raisonnement se reduit a ceder au sentiment;” and it is
not impossible that the sentiment of the natural, had time
permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency over
the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing
was not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of
knowledge, the old age of the world drew near. This the mass
of mankind saw not, or, living lustily although unhappily,
affected not to see. But, for myself, the Earth’s records
had taught me to look for widest ruin as the price of
highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our Fate
from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with
Assyria the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with
Nubia, more crafty than either, the turbulent mother of all
Arts. In the history of these regions I met with a ray from
the Future. The individual artificialities of the three
latter were local diseases of the Earth, and in their
individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no
regeneration save in death. That man, as a race, should not
become extinct, I saw that he must be “born again.”

And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our
spirits, daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we
discoursed of the days to come, when the Art-scarred surface
of the Earth, having undergone that purification which alone
could efface its rectangular obscenities, should clothe
itself anew in the verdure and the mountain-slopes and the
smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at length a fit
dwelling-place for man:—for man the
Death-purged—for man to whose now exalted intellect
there should be poison in knowledge no more—for the
redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal, but still
for the material, man.

‘Una’.

Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the
epoch of the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we
believed, and as the corruption you indicate did surely
warrant us in believing. Men lived; and died individually.
You yourself sickened, and passed into the grave; and
thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion
brings up together once more, tortured our slumbering senses
with no impatience of duration, yet my Monos, it was a
century still.

‘Monos’.

Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably,
it was in the Earth’s dotage that I died. Wearied at heart
with anxieties which had their origin in the general turmoil
and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever. After some few
days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium replete with
ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for pain,
while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you—after
some days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless
and motionless torpor; and this was termed Death by
those who stood around me.

Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of
sentience. It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the
extreme quiescence of him, who, having slumbered long and
profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a mid-
summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into consciousness,
through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without being
awakened by external disturbances.

I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had
ceased to beat. Volition had not departed, but was
powerless. The senses were unusually active, although
eccentrically so—assuming often each other’s functions
at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense.
The rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my
lips to the last, affected me with sweet fancies of
flowers—fantastic flowers, far more lovely than any of
the old Earth, but whose prototypes we have here blooming
around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless, offered
no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in
abeyance, the ***** could not roll in their sockets—
but all objects within the range of the visual hemisphere
were seen with more or less distinctness; the rays which
fell upon the external retina, or into the corner of the
eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which struck
the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only
as sound—sound sweet or discordant as the
matters presenting themselves at my side were light or dark
in shade—curved or angular in outline. The hearing, at
the same time, although excited in degree, was not irregular
in action—estimating real sounds with an extravagance
of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were
tardily received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted
always in the highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure
of your sweet fingers upon my eyelids, at first only
recognized through vision, at length, long after their
removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. All my
perceptions were purely sensual. The materials furnished the
passive brain by the senses were not in the least degree
wrought into shape by the deceased understanding. Of pain
there was some little; of pleasure there was much; but of
moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and
were appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but
they were soft musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to
the extinct reason no intimation of the sorrows which gave
them birth; while large and constant tears which fell upon
my face, telling the bystanders of a heart which broke,
thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy alone. And
this was in truth the Death of which these bystanders
spoke reverently, in low whispers—you, sweet Una,
gaspingly, with loud cries.

They attired me for the coffin—three or four dark
figures which flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed
the direct line of my vision they affected me as forms;
but upon passing to my side their images impressed me
with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other dismal
expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone,
habited in a white robe, passed in all directions musically
about.

The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became
possessed by a vague uneasiness—an anxiety such as the
sleeper feels when sad real sounds fall continuously within
his ear—low distant bell-tones, solemn, at long but
equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy dreams.
Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight,
and was palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike
the distant reverberation of surf, but more continuous,
which, beginning with the first twilight, had grown in
strength with the darkness. Suddenly lights were brought
into the rooms, and this reverberation became forthwith
interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression
was in a great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame
of each lamp (for there were many), there flowed unbrokenly
into my ears a strain of melodious monotone. And when now,
dear Una, approaching the bed upon which I lay outstretched,
you sat gently by my side, breathing odor from your sweet
lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
tremulously within my *****, and mingling with the merely
physical sensations which circumstances had called forth, a
something akin to sentiment itself—a feeling that,
half appreciating, half responded to your earnest love and
sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the pulseless
heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then
into a purely sensual pleasure as before.

And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses,
there appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all
perfect. In its exercise I found a wild delight—yet a
delight still physical, inasmuch as the understanding had in
it no part. Motion in the animal frame had fully ceased. No
muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no artery throbbed. But
there seemed to have sprung up in the brain that of
which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental
pendulous pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man’s
abstract idea of Time. By the absolute equalization
of this movement—or of such as this—had the
cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted. By
its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the
mantel, and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings
came sonorously to my ears. The slightest deviations from
the true proportion—and these deviations were
omniprevalent—affected me just as violations of
abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense.
Although no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the
individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no
difficulty in holding steadily in mind the tones, and the
respective momentary errors of each. And this—this
keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of
duration—this sentiment existing (as man could
not possibly have conceived it to exist) independently of
any succession of events—this idea—this sixth
sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first
obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the
threshold of the temporal eternity.

It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others
had departed from the chamber of Death. They had deposited
me in the coffin. The lamps burned flickeringly; for this I
knew by the tremulousness of the monotonous strains. But
suddenly these strains diminished in distinctness and in
volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my nostrils died
aw

When I hear the words "abusive relationship"
I think of the gruesome pictures of women
battered and bleeding
that they showed to us in health class.
They forget that not all wounds are so easily seen.

not MY relationship.
I would never fall victim to such a horrific cycle,
of emotional abuse.
Sure he screamed and called me every name in the book,
but at the end of every night he swore he loved me.
And sure he kept tabs on me at all times,
and my friendships began to fade into the background,
but he just worried, which meant he cared.
...right?

not MY relationship.
Sometimes we become so invested and fall so deeply in love,
that we become numb to the pain.
The abnormal becomes normal.
And the punishment that you so often receive,
you begin to believe is deserved.

MY relationship.
I hesitate to call it abusive,
maybe because it has such a horrifying ring to it.
Maybe it's denial.
But whatever it is,
it took me 3 years to finally break the cycle.

twisted clown, metal chains
video games

getting old, dying life
quiet animals

water goddess, she’s a mistress
she’s abnormal

still alive, they gonna eat us… **** us
I hate it when everyone else is oh

I was in 7th grade when Sammie was born.
I remember someone walked into my classroom to give me the message,
that my very first niece had arrived.
I was so excited,
I almost cried.

Right after school my cousin rushed me to see her.
I remember she was so tiny,
I held her carefully in fear that I would break her.
She was the cutest little thing I had ever seen.
She even smiled at me.

She was premature,
so there were a few things that needed to be done.
She was a little sick and ended up staying in the hospital for awhile,
and because she was born only three days before my birthday,
I spent my 13th birthday with her in the hospital room.

I didn't mind spending my time there.
I loved seeing her sweet little face.
Although I hated when she'd cry,
and we weren't allowed to comfort her.
She was so beautiful and fragile.

Before I knew it,
she started growing.
She started out as a baby who just slept all the time,
and turned into a crazy toddler,
who often walked into my room and stole my breakfast every morning.

When she started to talk,
she began calling me "Mamber".
She couldn't say Amber without an M at the beginning,
but I didn't try correcting her.
I loved it.

Suddenly she was 5 years old.
She started talking like a little adult,
and she'd sing along to all my favorite songs with me.
She would sometimes push my buttons just for a good laugh,
but I wouldn't change a thing.

When she turned 7,
we realized she was a little different than most kids.
She had fears,
similar to the ones I struggle with as an adult,
and she could barely function because of those fears.

We realized she had anxiety and OCD.
To think that my sweet little niece had to carry such a heavy weight,
broke my heart into pieces.
I've felt the power of anxiety,
and I know the pain that comes with it.

Thankfully,
we found a way to help her cope,
and she no longer suffered as badly.
A fear here and there would pop up along the way,
but nothing abnormal like before.

She's now 8 years old,
but she likes to pretend she's 18.
She tells me she wants to call me Amber now,
and I refuse to let her.
I think it'll break my heart if she does.

She looks around my room,
and admires the paintings and drawings I've done,
and tells me that when she's big she wants to do things like I do.
I tell her that when she gets big,
she can do anything she wants to.

I never knew I could love a little human being so much.
Sometimes I pick her up and squeeze her,
just to tell her that she has got to stop growing up so fast.
She tells me she wants to be big,
and that being little isn't fun.

I know she will grow up,
regardless of how much I want her to stay small,
but there's one thing I will never stop teaching her.
I will relay it in her mind,
until it sticks with her.

I will tell her:
Keep that child-like spirit.
Be a kid at heart,
always.
And never let the world convince you to grow up too fast.

I love my Sammie.
She will always be little in my eyes.
Even when she's the age I am right now,
I will always see that little curly headed girl,
with the bright hazel eyes..

so ready to conquer the world.

<3

The arrogance of the men and their violence
in all possible forms
– completely everyday or extraordinary,
subtle or extreme,
considered as being normal or abnormal –
depend on this, of course,
that they are either denied or justified
from the perpetrators of the violence themselves.
But also by the women in any way
glossed over, excused or forgiven,
which from childhood to the present day, in Western countries too,
has been brainwashed thoroughly,
which means: shut up, be obedient
and offer no resistance.


© Barbara-Paraprem, 2015

I stand a moment and gaze at my cloud of thoughts
What comes to mind is limitless;it is all sorts
The third hand seems dishonest.
For to love is a risk that one must be modest

Concealed in my heart I hide the truth of my being
I am not proud; but I am not satisfied to be fleeing
A cynical cycle, which  appears with a paradox ending
One should knot their laces now than later for pending

How can I ever be such a mockery that I hesitate, but rather be called a fool
I hate to feel abnormal with friends ,when I act like a tool
I cannot release this barrier that will restrict my trust
The matter has developed as an infant where bullying was a must

You...
Are not easy to appease and quite unsweet
(Special to me)

You...
Are the red ball my mother said it is dangerous to play with
(A world unrevealed)

Yet, I'm drawn to your bitterness
It makes me feel canny.

There's nothing more I love than candy
I mean I would be dandy with an outstanding quantity
Somehow still unequal to the flavor of you

You...
Who pulls my tail and teases my senses
(Convince me my pain is not real)

You...
Are the personified insatiable
And complacency is dullified when you are on my mind

This is my inept attempt to explain
I want to drown in the aroma that is you

Lose my fingers in your skin
Awakening your phobias in hopes I'll forget, my own.

Smear my lips near your hips
And you'll remind me
I only want you because I am not supposed to

You...
Are the olive taste I can not replace
I want to spit you out like gum,
But it would be so futile to.
(For I love you)

if words are food for the mind,
then here is a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then here is why i'm so pained.

abandoned, abhorrent
abnormal, absent
abstract, abuse
addicted, anxious

betray, bitterly
blank, blasphemy
bloodless, breakdown
breathless, brutal

captive, casually
catastrophe, cautiously
change, cigarettes
crucial, clueless

damaged, dangerous
deadly, disastrous
disheartened, disconcerting
dramatic, dreading

eager, eccentric
ecstasy, eerie
effete, effortless
embittered, excess

faded, failure
faintly, fallacy
faltering, fatally
fearfully, finally

garbage, gawky
gibberish, gloomy
gone, goodbye
graphic, gratify

hallucinate, harshly
hazy, heartless
hectic, helpless
hesitant, hit-and-miss

idiotic, idly
ignorant, intimacy
illogical, imaginative
infatuated, intoxicated

jealousy, jittery
journey, journal
joylessly, judicial
junk, juvenile

keen, killing
knavish, knocking
knockout, knotty
knowingly, knowledge

laborious, lacking
lame, languishing
lifeless, literature
lovelorn, lugubrious

madness, maintenance
make-believe, malaise
mean, melancholic
mellow, melodramatic

naff, naivety
nameless, naturally
nauseous, nebulous
neglected, nervous

oasis, objectionable
obliged, obliterate
oblivion, obscurity
obsolete, one-and-only

pacifist, pained
pale, panicky
paradise, paralyze
passionately, passively

raging, ranting
rationalize, raving
realistic, reasonable
rebellious, reckless

saboteur, sadness
sake, sameness
sanity, satisfactory
scar, steady

taint, tangled
tasteless, tearful
telling, temperamental
terror, theoretical

unaffected, uncanny
uncommon, unconsciously
undesirable, uneasy
unfortunate, untidy

vaguely, vanish
vanity, vanquish
versatile, vicious
violence, voracious

waiting, waking
walkout, wanting
wasteful, weary
withering, wrecking

if words are food for the mind,
then you've seen a glimpse of mine
if words are drugs for the brain,
then no wonder i'm so pained.

*-djs

Why do all my poems sound like a cry for help?
Like iam so desperate for someone to come and save me
Is that normal
Or have I become abnormal?

(Holding fire and water together)

I don't know why the rain keeps writing the
name of Nigeria on the ground in every corner.
I don't know why we are this broken and
tortured like the fragments of the dust.
I don't know why the Dapchi girls returned yesterday while their chikbok friends are
still in captive.
I don't know why every street in Nigeria is
known with an imprint of good leaders.
I don't know why we cry yet point accusation. fingers back to ourselves, who is fooling who?
I don't know why the sun cry here with a
closed lips.
I don't know why we keep writing love stories
while our brothers and sisters perish in shame!
I don't just know why but I think you should know.
Are you not the one that collected a cup of rice, clean notes and Abrahamic lie from them?
I won't speak ill of this land again,  I won't!
I won't judge any one, no, I won't for  the
sake of my unborn children.
No, I won't for the sake of what happened to Dele Giwa and Saro Wiwa.
We poets are abnormal psychologically.
We paints abstraction from the abstracts creating fears that might hurt those true patriots.
My muse fell out from me yesterday night,
When my television opened to a scene of genocide.
Men on pants, women on trousers painting out the tears made for people inhabiting hell.
Their laughters and smiles were printed to be archived among themselves.
I won't speak ill  of this country, no, I won't!
Because of my unborn children,
I won't!
But I will tell just one tale for them to remember
Of how monkeys carted away with our monies!
Of how Snake swallowed our currency!
Of how good our leaders are, I think you know!
I have been holding these demons in me until last night they came out horribly in fierce protest to revisit this land again.
To tell of those girls ***** under the bridge,
To ask why boys like me are named after me,
To speak against shadows of death lurking here and there.
Nigeria is grey and black, red and violent,
Retrieving this oceans of mysteries from the hidden abyss of grave corruption is the passport tabled on the pyramid top to recreate a versatile muses of a lyrics calling for a right to write our rights.
Take a walk to memory lane pass your shadow,  that of your father,  mother & grandmas
You will see a Nigeria in another angle trying to free herself from the grip of corruption, then, revisit her tears and struggles you will know we are the cause of our own misfortunes.!

©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustrations

Growing up at a young age with ADHD can be a lot of fun. Everything just becomes that much more interesting. The sky seems so vast and every single blade of grass looks just as interesting as the one right next to it. My mind raced with questions every single second. I felt the only way to express it at times was relentlessly running around, as if every step I took gave me a satisfactory answer to each question I thought about; which was ultimately a lot of steps. It would be enough to drive most people into a state of madness. Not me though, I swore to the heavens I’d have every question answered. Because believe me, the seconds would feel like hours for every moment I didn’t know just how much wood a woodchuck could chuck.

Here’s my perspective; Thoughts in general are like the light from the stars that always shine the same brightness throughout the day. They are always there. Existing, even when you can’t see them. At least that’s how it is for normal people, you get the grace of day to nullify the shining of the light from those stars at times when it can be overbearing. You get a break. If I could describe what it’s like to have ADHD, picture your mind never turning off. It is always bright for me, and there is no dawn or day to alleviate my eyes from the galaxy of lights I see. It’s a beautiful disaster. You’re always thinking out loud to yourself about everything around you. When thinking about the concept of having a conscious and subconscious, you don’t even believe in the separation of the two. You think so much because of the energy flowing through your nerves, that there could be no way another part of your brain retains knowledge you don’t already consciously know. There’s so many questions every single second, that there needs to be some sort of way to express it. Mine would come through continuos questions and obviously, a lot of running around.

I guess I didn’t understand much about people back then, though. I was too busy exploring my mind and all the ideas that sprouted within it every second. I never thought it could be a bad thing. My father seemed to think differently at times.

The worst part about having an overactive thought process, is not being able to express it. Those thoughts have to go somewhere; and if they don’t, they build up  in a *** on a back burner until the lid finally blows off and explodes as some type of extreme emotion, from anger to sadness.  

As a kid, I have too many memories of confrontations with my father when I said something he didn’t agree with. Almost as if he thought I was overstepping my bounds as a male in his house by only talking about what was on my mind. If he didn’t like what I said, or if he didn’t agree with it, “I was an idiot.” It didn’t stop there either.

Conversations about things I’ve learned had to be defended with the words, “But dad, my teacher just taught us this today in class!”

“Well then, your teachers an idiot.” he would respond. It seemed like he knew the answer to everything. Even after I went to school and got an education that his tax dollars were paying for, it wasn’t enough to get him to agree quickly with things I said. It seemed everybody was an idiot, and as a kid, I almost thought it was normal to be one at a point. Everybody seemed to be doing it.

But even the innocence of a kid knows when something feels wrong. It didn’t take much of looking at his gritting teeth and clenched jaw to know either. I would watch the muscles in his cheeks and forehead pulsate with blood every time he squeezed his fist in stubbornness; as if his fists were his heart in that moment

I guess what hurt the most about the confrontations, was the awareness that he was not always this kind of man. I’ve seen him in different lights before. Brighter lights, where his happiness rained in a room and brought joy to everyone. Times where you’d never think the same man was consumed by a darkness that made him blind to reason. The pain came with knowing I was fighting to express myself to the same man that would make me laugh till my ribs felt weak. The person who I loved seeing happy, that much more because I saw how the shadows of the clouds he carried with him, darkened his spirit.

His alcoholism and addictions didn’t help aid his perspectives for the better either. Bottle after bottle I would watch get consumed, all the while his fuse grew shorter in those moments as his BAC grew higher. Cigarettes on the daily, pills and ***. Anything to escape the pain he harbored like a shipyard.

I started keeping my thoughts to myself more. At that age, I was innocent enough to believe I was wrong for having an opinion, or speaking my mind. I thought it was wrong to think the way I thought, so I maliciously put those thoughts on a back burner; And that’s when it started.

The silence, or I guess people would say, “the introvert,” found its way into my life. It’s such a tragedy of irony. The person who always thought a mile a minute, and still does, now barely says a word. Keeping himself locked away in his brain because there’s no key that could unlock him from the darkness of judgement. I was told I was an idiot and that I was wrong so many times that I never wanted to be those things again. If I never spoke, I never had to worry about hearing it.

For years I stayed quiet about the things that went on inside my brain, and it literally killed me. I felt like I was being robbed of my imagination, or rather I was robbing other people in this world of my imagination. Simple and plain, my thoughts weren’t being put out there. They continued to boil on my back burner, occasionally exploding every now and then into anger and depression. All of those amazing thoughts I used to have, now felt like fire burning through my veins for every pulse that kept them there to never be released.

I resented my dad, and won’t forget the day I told myself I wouldn't become him. I never would of imagined that that would be the day I put an invisible blind-fold on. Because I had swore to myself I would never act like my dad, my foggy eyes would never catch the times that I did. There was just no way I would or could be like him because he character caused me too much pain.

Conversations with other people started becoming more debate-like, I was always quick to defend my point because I didn’t want to be wrong. I talked more than I listened. If you didn’t know what I was saying, you just didn’t understand where I was coming from. I kept and thought to myself all the time. So much, that when I finally did release what was on my mind, it had to be right because I spent enough time to myself analyzing it. Other people just couldn’t understand that. They couldn’t.

Remember that boiling *** on the back burner; that occasionally explodes? Well, now it was now on the verge of imploding. I was so fixated on never being wrong, it was almost like I was never wrong. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Yeah it did to me too. When I noticed it, that’s when I imploded.

I couldn't believe I became exactly what I told myself I would never become. All of those past thoughts and hatred imploded in my brain and trickled down the inside of my body, burning me. I burned, but not with anger, I burned with depression and more silence. It was a vicious cycle. Speaking, especially to other people, almost became taboo to me. It seemed weird and out of place because it involved more emotions. I was kind of tired of feeling at that point. I had already felt enough through all of the episodes I would have from my explosions. Not to mention, I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I was my dad spitting image when I talked to other people. Depression can really be a vicious cycle, and I remember how much it would recycle itself in my life.

I would spend hours in school, with a million thoughts to say, but never spoke out. I hated myself for it, which would get me depressed. Which would then get me depressed for knowing I was depressed; making me depressed because I was depressed I was depressed. There seemed to be no escape.

I started abusing substance, from alcohol to ****. My abuse, came from the justification that I told myself I was doing it to understand perspective. I wanted to explore the same world of addiction that my dad did. I wanted to come to understand what it’s like to live in a world of dependency and escape. Boy did that backfire on me. I went into it thinking I could just jump right back out of it; that’s not what happened. I was quickly consumed with darkness, escape and depression. Anxiety got the best of me now, because I felt trapped in this world of rumination and hopelessness.

What was depression for me? Its was being stuck in a dark room, separated from the light of happiness by a cruel lock door. A locked door that had a small viewing glass for you to see what lies on the other side of it, within your reach. It was having what seemed like an entire ring of keys to open the door with, yet they’re all the same key. Depression was refusing to stand up, to take advantage of the little bit of light that shined through the viewing glass for me. The little bit of light that would of shown me I was recycling the same key, over and over again. All because I tried to use the dark to see.

I felt that my voice was unheard and I finally got to the point where I didn’t want to live anymore. I used to wish and pray that I’d contract a horrible disease or illness cause I thought it’d be the only way for people to truly hear the words I had to say. It’s a shame that I would even think this. But what even more shameful than that, is how much more words really are cherished after someone has died, or is dying. I had a one track mind for sacrifice, and was hell bent making it happen. I smoked **** by myself; occasionally drank in my lonesome; compulsively ate more than I should; anchored myself to be a sloth in my bed, slaved away to TV and constantly stressed myself over the little things I did. Anything that would speed up the process of my downfall, I did.

I still felt empty though, my collapse wasn’t happening as instantaneous as I hoped, which gave my relentless mind more time to think about it. I did want to live, I didn’t want to have to be this sacrifice to get my point across. “It’s such a cop out," my mind would occasionally blurt out to get my attention. “So what if I’m like my dad? Shouldn’t that be more of a reason to be able to empathize with him when he gets the way he does?"

It wasn’t until the day I got the brilliant idea that maybe I should speak what’s on my mind, that I saw how powerful I could feel. I’ll tell you something though, fighting through the agita you get in the back of your throat is hard. It literally stops you from talking. You know what you want to say, and exactly how you want to express it, but you overthink it and think you’re going to mess up expressing something you know is simple. That agita is the fear in the back of your throat that reminds you of why you feel that way. I didn’t want to result to the back burner again though, so I fought through the pain no matter how bad my chest hurt.

Eventually, I stopped resenting my father. I took it upon myself to sit down and throughly write him a letter, expressing the way I felt about our relationship. About how all I wanted was to see him happy, I was very blunt about how I felt. This is a part of that letter:

"When I think about how long it took me to write this, it’s pretty sad really. And it’s not even because my writing skills we’re slacking, the sad part is what I thought I had to do in order to write this to you. Every day that I would try and write this, I would put alcohol and drugs into my body because I thought it would aid me in my creative writing. But instead, pretty much the opposite happened. I sat staring at a computer screen ruminating about my own troubling thoughts and personal anger. So I sat even longer staring at that screen thinking I needed more substance in my body to awaken the thoughts that I so longed to express. I used and abused until I just got too tired of trying to write and passed out. My point is, I made excuses to take in substances for my own personal benefit because the whole time I was really trying to run away from the problem instead of facing it. When I really sit back and analyze myself as well as you, I see a huge correlation between us. And to be honest, I think it’s a big contributing factor to my depression. Not because me and you are similar, but because we’re similar and you think you’re so different. Do you want in on something I’ve never directly told you? Growing up, I’ve always had persistent urge to make you a happier person. Ever since I noticed how depressed and upset you were, I told myself I would stop at nothing until you saw the good that life has to offer. I didn’t realize how high I set my expectations until they were ripped out from under my feet. My interventions got me nowhere but further into a rut with you, not to mention they were labeled as girlish emotions to have. It’s funny how fast you can go from being helpful to being angry, which is exactly what happened to me. I became so obsessed with trying to make you a happier person that I started becoming angrier that nothing was working. My anger turned into depression and I started smoking **** significantly more to run away from the fact that it seemed like there was nothing I could do to help you out. I started seeing all the negative aspects of life and didn’t want to go out and have fun anymore, so I started compulsively eating and religiously watching TV. Not to mention, I would spend an abnormal amount of time on my computer. I went to the doctor 2 weeks ago, and since the last time I went there which was less than a year ago, I put on 20 pounds. I feel like ****, but I lie to everyone because I don’t want them to see how much I’m suffering on the inside. You know, there was a point a few months ago where I didn’t care if I died or got extremely sick, I actually hoped for it. I looked at my life as a sacrifice for the well being of other people, as well as for my own benefit. If I had gotten really sick or diagnosed with a horrible disease, I knew people would pay more attention to me. I knew that people would listen to my opinion more because it was more “influential” on them because of the fact I was probably going to die. I kind of counted on pity to be an influencing factor on me being influential to others, which is kind of like giving up. It’s kind of strange that you hear that coming from me, huh?"

I took the burden of my father off my shoulders, and I must say we get along a lot better today. He never thought I'd be able to relate to him in the ways that I did in the letter I wrote, and he broke down in tears to me. I never chose to give up on the thoughts that went on in my mind. I still struggle with expressing how I feel at times, but it’s not stopping me from trying to fight past it. I know I can relate to him if I allow him into my life instead of shutting him out indefinitely.

I have this belief that traumatic experiences can be the gateway to self-change. Trauma happens to us all, and it can be the very foundation of a person’s character. It can be what shapes your fears, develops strengths or weaknesses to certain situations and can overall can be a burden-like thought that you carry with for the rest of your life. Trauma’s have their ranges of impact and can even go as far as sending a person over the edge to end their own life. One that has stuck with me my whole life, which most people wouldn’t guess to be, was disguised in silence. People that go through traumatic experiences don’t always have crazy superficial cuts and bruises, a lot of the scars of their traumas remain on the inside, hidden away from plain view.

I hate them, they’re  everywhere
    with their painted on smiles
             Behind your back,
they probably stab and despise
knowing how to stir up  hate and lies
Apparently they make good bosses
but if you know one,  avoid, cut your losses
They have no conscience or empathy,
their emotions are pantomimed not real
Remember, they don’t have to make
                    a bloodbath
         to be a psychopath

He noticed the little things
Like how she would cry and grip the steering wheel
Pull over,
And pinch the inside of her palm
As if trying to reignite the fire that her tears put out
How she held on to her skin so tight
That the tips of her fingernails changed from rosy pink
To a suffocating and painful ivory
How she would cry and cry
And how she would wait until her palms bled
And how she sniffled one last time,
Wiped her palms on her pants
How every time she did this, she drove home silently
She noticed how he could not say a word
How he must be utterly repulsed by her
By how turned around she gets
He must not be able to react to her abnormal ways
Of dealing with copious amount of stress and anxiety
She noticed the little things
Like how he wouldn't know how to take care of her
How she was trapped
How she couldn't pinch herself out of this world
How she didn't want to die,
But simply cease to exist
How she knew she couldn't ask him to help her
"Can you pinch me out of this world?"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"You're the only person I have that brings me back
When I sometimes pinch myself too hard."
They also failed to notice the larger things
Like how he held her in his lap
And let her pinch to make her stop crying
How she brushed his hair back when he couldn't stop
How they kept a box of tissues in the car for moments like this
When the other would need to pinch for a while
To make the crying stop
To deal with this abnormal way of coping with things
To make the other remember
That it might not be so bad to have someone to help you
Get out of a pinch, after all.

To be quite honest this
Concept is strange to
Me I'm just
Myself but
To others my
Mind is abnormal
I ponder things other
Couldn't care less about
I understand concepts most
People ignore
And yet
I feel stupid quite often
Much of my mind is unexplored
I daren't venture into the
Cavernous chambers of
Scorn I have for myself and
Those who aren't intelligent because
Who am I to think myself
Superior to anyone?

Consequences: made for learning lessons
I convert unlearned lessons
Turned to abnormal blessings

Stretching the truth to hold you
Pricked by your gorgeous daze
I bleed profusely, yet don’t turn away

The love I swore to keep
My blood tells other tales
Intoxicated from your smell

Continuing to caress your sides
Wincing in pain
Feeling as if there’s something to gain

No end to my quest in sight
Finding the rose I thought I would need
Loving the one that caused me to bleed

I take a deep breath to staunch
That constant clang and clatter
Be still and follow the hunch
Before it’s too late to matter

I need a quiet place
A shift in space, a change in stealth
My next breath can create
Some room to gaze at something else

Soon I must take a break
I can’t settle down or think straight
Wrestling with those demons
I know not the time or the date

Looking back looks so abnormal
Deadly games of Red Rover
Spawning pages from my journals
Replaying over and over

I know not steps to take
On pathways for planting the seed
Peace, her elusive face
Turns away whenever I plead

Time to build that Safe House
Only I have the key to the door
Where peace and bliss abounds
I meet each holy moment and soar

Seek a new vision there
And learn to think more about others
Let go my tormented memories
Seeing All-my Sisters and Brothers

I find that peaceful space
Just to release what I don’t need
Harmony-Beauty-Love
Replaces all my soul has freed

Filling up my Heart Space
As soft as a sweet baby’s kiss
Some name the feeling Grace
I feel a sense of peace and bliss

People have called us a lot of things Savages, Indians, Aboriginals, Prairie N*s, Reznecks, or Monsters. Are we truly savages, monsters or are you  the true Savages and monsters. We lived good, but then Christopher Columbus happened and we've never been the same. Got slaughtered, *****, caught your vile diseases. We did not do anything to you, if it weren't for us you wouldn't have survived in the ''new world''. Forced us into reservations, tried to make us ''civil'' what the hell does that mean? Look in the mirror to see the real monsters. Bombing Hiroshima, killing millions in Iraq and Afghanistan for no reason, making a group called the kkk, etc. Native's are not the problem, the problem is you. I'm not saying native people are perfect, we did a fair share to our own people. I'm just saying their is a problem with our society, that has tried to shove what they did to our culture under the carpet for way too long. It's time for the truth to come out, it's time for us to have true equality between our culture's, it's time for a true honest apology, and to give us back our land that you stole or let us govern the land that we have, without any interference from the government.

love is the most amazing thing in the world.
someone accompanies you.
someone cares about you.
someone is there for you.

but love can be a pain.
you don't see it coming
so it's a surprise.
it will change your life so much.
it's not normal.

and to conclude,
love isn't a normal pain.
we aren't used to it
so it uses us.

In my attempt to be clever and witty I have written you a poem.
For you to read and pick apart.
It will start with a catchy title that will then bring you to the opening sentence.
In my attempt to be clever and witty I have written you a poem.
If this poem catches your eye,
you will read Michelle Rose
to figure out worthiness of a follow or a like.
If this is uninteresting you won’t even bother to finish reading.
It will end with a clever remark that could be considered sarcasm,
just as the rest of the poem could have been.
You will then wonder to yourself, why did I just read that,
and what the hell is that second to last stanza supposed to mean?
Or maybe you won’t do any of this because you’re a normal person.
Did I just call you abnormal?

Sometimes I like to read in the dark too…

a clever remark that could be considered sarcasm,
Just as the rest of the poem could have been.

Delusional, paranoid state
Focus, stare, clear the mind
Was she really there?
Were her hands cold and dark?
Reality becomes irrelevant
You are alone
Your fears prevail
Overwhelming obsession
Gape into the darkness
Cleanse your cluttered mind
Are you okay?
Say yes

She looked at her mother.
Her mother’s dead body to be more specific.
She wanted to cry and scream.
But all she could do was stare at what is in the coffin.
A body. It belonged to someone she once knew.
Her mother.
People were rushing past her.
It is a funeral after all.
Too many things to be done.
And no one really could ask her to do anything.
She was stiff as a stone.
Pretty useless anyway.
Always have been.
Never knew what the right things to do socially were.
That used to be one of the problems her mother had with her.
Her poor mother.
She gave birth to an alien.
Someone who wasn’t normal.
She looked human outside but inside her daughter could not be more different to her.
Not only to her but pretty much an alien to the whole planet.
She didn’t know how to behave or dress up in social events.
How much her mother wanted a daughter who was pretty so she can flaunt her daughter everywhere?
How much she wanted a daughter who did not always argue with her? How much she wanted a daughter who loved house chores and enjoyed shopping?
How much she wanted a child who was just like everyone else?
There were countless days her mother scolded the God.
All her mother ever wanted was a normal child.
She didn’t have the strength to handle this abnormal child who is nothing but a burden.
Fortunately, her mother does not have to worry about that anymore.
She has left this ‘burden’ to fend for herself now.
If only ‘this burden’ knew how.
Not that her mother was much of help when she was alive.
Her mother was pretty useless too.
And maybe that’s why Natalie doesn’t really feel much difference emotionally now that her mother has gone.
The only thing that bothers her is that she needs to cook and clean herself from now on.

When I look out from the smudged and cracked windows of home,
I know there's no place quite the same as right here;
No place I could find that quite catches my ear,
And no place quite the same that can swallow my fears,
To the depths of this heated and comfortable box,
In which I am protected by numerous locks,
From intruders and bandits,
Salesmen and clerks;
I am the legal intruder,
And for me, that's what works.

Yet I'm here when, in fact, I am meant to be there;
Not far from my home,
I'm meant to be learning whats fair.

I am meant to be learning what's right and what's wrong,
Yet 6 hours of my time a day seems quite long,
To be spending on verbs, nouns and pronouns,
On algebra, fractions, and abnormal word sounds.

This life is not theirs; this life is all mine,
Such an old and used system would appear to be right,
Yet I beg to differ, as revolution now squeaks,
To push through the systems cracks and cause leaks,
In which free-thinking filters the words of the old,
Who believe themselves better, for they're trained and so bold.

When I look to society, what is it I see?
Is it a throng of a thousand people who seem to be free?
Not quite, yet at the same time, that seems quite close,
They are free in a box, in which authority is the host.

"Civilization has to be defended against the individual,
And its regulations, institutions and commands are directed to that task."*
Quite an obvious command,
And it seems that at last,
Man is learning to embrace what they each see as free;
And it does not simply stop at being free to simply be,
It goes beyond such in mind, matter, soul, and in trust;
For it is the systems denial,
Towards which I lust.

The institutions, and nations,
Corporations, news stations,
Stateism, classism, all attempt to control,
Who I am, what I do, where I go, who I meet;
They tell me to relax, and just take a quick seat;
Yet I know what I want from life is free feet,
To be who I am,
And take all the heat.
To do what I do,
And ignore what's 'elite.'
To go where I go,
And control, as such, my feet.
To meet who I meet,
And next to them, take a seat.

I am not a name,
And I am not a number.
I am always awake in my mind,
As I slumber.

I walk down the street like I normally do.
In my normal way, in my normal town.
I have my normal chats with my normal friend.
Everything about today is normal.
Yet, something is missing.

I take a stroll down the park, where autumn has began.
The leaves cover the ground with abundant colors of yellow, red and orange.
Normally, I step on the leaves as I take my stroll.
I normally enjoy the sound of the leaves crunching under my feet.
The crunching is normally a sign that the season has now changed from summer to autumn.

But an idea festers in my head.
What if I don't step on the leaves?
I take my next step and I am about to crush another leaf.
But I stop my foot midair.
Gently, I shift my foot to the right of the leaf and set my foot down on the pavement.
With a sudden gush of wind, the leaf of red hue soars in the sky.
The shimmer and shine of the mid-day sun emerged from the frame of a red-hued leaf.
Another abnormal thing happened.
Taking in the sight, a smile adorned my face.

The abstraction of color brought such joy to my heart.
It was a feeling I had not quite felt before.
I'm not sure what to call it.
Was it hope? Excitement?
Whatever it was, I stopped stepping on leaves after that.
I felt I was a kid again, imagining the leaves as lava and taking action to avoid them.
The adrenaline was an unknown feeling to me.
My friends would stare as I would gracefully avoid the leaves, and their looks were not normal to me.
Their faces scrunched up in dismay and their eyebrows furrowed.
It did startle me, their new looks, but I felt something deep down sing.
Their displeasure made me smile.

My eyes danced in the sunlight as a figure caught my fancy.
Her hair was as brown as a old bark tree, but it seemed more fragile than paper.
Her blue eyes conjured a storm in my own and I could not bear to look away.
Her dark red dress reminded me of the color I had not seen so long ago.
I felt compelled to her.

Her mouth opened to form words, words I could not hear.
I read her bare and worn-out lips.
"Come."
Her eyes, body and lips beckon to me.
"Come."
I wanted to see her.
Everything I was doing was abnormal.
So was the step my foot made towards her.

"Come."
Her hand is held out for me to grab.
I take another step and it becomes a run.
My body is no longer in control.
My body submitted to her.
"Come."

The distance between us is just a couple steps.
But what I catch a glimpse of is the last thing I remember.
The devil somehow knew I wished for something new.
I knew something was wrong when I no longer saw the eyes of an incoming storm.
Fear struck my body.
The car was seconds away from my side.
Pain crept slowly into my being.

And then death struck me.

Stitched into this sac of skin at birth.
That fused to your bones
Fabricating a narcotic seamless facade

We pluck at the seams, with crude claws.
Laboring to unravel the lace seams
In vain

Whirling, flickering, suffocating nausea aimed at
Misuse of our pronouns of
Our echoing repulsive abnormal figure.

Funding a doctor to shed our skin.
Mutilating skin and bone to perfection.
For self-acceptance.

Delicate detailed and divine.
Simple sophisticated **** and sublime.

A dress.
Abnormal in class.
The way she made it shine.
But it was not the dress but her.
That stole my heart of thoughts.
Broken and repaired.
For that day I saw her all.
I've always seen beneath the surface.
But this dress it has found a purpose.
In this moment.
She sees what I see.
In this moment.
I'll set you free.
The way you do me.