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"airtime" poems
Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected]) It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born, Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism; So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya; The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion, Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture, Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress, M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd. This consumerism and **** consumerism, It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor It is the avaricious tube which siphons back The hard earned money from pockets of the poor Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.
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Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
END MONTHS CONSUMERISM
Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected]) It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born, Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism; So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya; The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion, Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture, Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress, M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd. This consumerism and **** consumerism, It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor It is the avaricious tube which siphons back The hard earned money from pockets of the poor Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.
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30
I have been forced, Out of domicile, And now **** bored, With sojourners' world worthwhile. I used to love phones, It's versatility in functioning, Obeying instructions  at all zones, I loved making calls and chatting . That was long ago , When it made me feel at home, Simply chatting could let go , Steam and heartbreak loom. Not now at this century , Where them need airtime to pick  a call, Where successive missed  calls arouse no worry, When they no bother reply at all. I won't lower my self -esteem, Not because of them dissaproval, That I aint  classy and fit for hymn, Its okey if u take me for a mall. Needless fight a loosing battle anymore , You won't torture me again as u laugh, Beaming is me at nirvana jaw, I declare enough is enough.
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Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.
corundum puppies and you begin to wonder if they’ll ever move again not much escapes your midas touch you used to organgrind your teeth and nails at the dusty mayhem floors (it’s suppertime baby let’s **** some airtime by eating the fish right off the CAUTIONwet hardwood as they gasp for air so we gasp for blood) seashell lakeshore pumpkinpatch painting of bugjuice spattered on the back windshield; you’re not afraid of a little fog. not enough sodium in the air (not enough salt in your wounds) and you begin to choke on the potassium of our bananasplit ages ago; if you’re eating your own molasses words please make sure you spit them back out again where the children can have them they wouldn’t say no to something sweet
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Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
pea soup & pending
The grapes haven't spoiled yet, but will now never be tasted. The cut flowers still have some perplexing life in them. Hanging from a tree branch, I find a message written by a dead woman. There's a bookmark embedded between the pages of a hardback, like Excalibur lodged in stone, and I cannot pull it out. It hurts to walk along certain corridors, past certain doors, with no one behind them calling to me. The radio is tuned to Ghost FM, and nobody with a pulse gets airtime. Digital photographs of fading analogue memories. Yet still small shoots persist in breaking through this dark, cold dirt, and inexplicably blossoming.
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Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
Six Over Ten
*Ramirez waits on the couch patiently for the date of his life* 1. fidgety-fidgety boy there's no call for nervous-smiles her daddy gruffly placed you on the couch now, you wait and wait and wait 2. you decide to use some bonus-airtime you received but who to call? the one you'd like to spend that time on .. is with your Maker but you're too shy to talk to God your Momma told you God's one busy-light and he ain't got no time for a slow-coach like you who can barely spell two words 3. yes, I can spell my name.. leave me alone! hey man, who says God won't talk to me? why, I did Him a favour here.. I'm takin' out this here girl who's never been out before 18 years old and her pappy been watching her so she can barely make two sentences before her complexion vies with beet *it came to him in a dream.. take her out.. take out.. take her out.. and so, tonight.. he will* 4. Lord behold, where is our boy? ****** why did you not watch him? what... and you believed him?? goodness, go out and find him....NOW! he didn't take his stuff 5. she descends slowly, as on a cloud and smiles in awkward-bunches oh, if only her father had let her go out before.. like everyone else she may have been able to see.............................................................. *this is the date and he took her out* S T - 2 dec 13
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Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
the date
flicker-interference-frequency (broadcast nightly) static-soundbites-satellite (fading slightly) but nothing of the woman who chooses words with such precision to lead your eyes to only pretty frames; a portrayal of desire, sensuality, a provocative anomaly— who lights up every time you say her name.
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Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 12:27 PM UTC
Airtime
Writing poems and songs of the heart we were confident that love would find a way but what place to accommodate? At which place would she stay? So many words you can say but words are just words can you feed her stomach? as a poet you'd fill her soul but would you be a man to build a home? She said: talk is cheap, your wallet is airtime, so many words you speak, but can you put your money where your mouth is or are you weak? We were poets, crafting words and building worlds however to the material world it was daydreaming We had no titles as lovers, neither bf's nor husband's we created a system of our own which to the world would be ridiculous a love note has a posting fee and sending is perilous We were poets with hat-tricks but scorned as bald men who bewitch. So much innocence in the beginning and now the deafening chaos with happenings a poet may swallow his sorrow but can he eat his words? In a world where money is a god how soon before he bows... with no living you're at the bottom of the tower and conspiracies enlighten you with truths that are sour wrestled by frustration you'd wish you could teleport to super universes where being watched by satellites isn't the union's verse But in the world, the coarse and bitter Earth how can a poet enliven his words? Perhaps preach to religion, anoint light sorcery, appoint fair government and breed an awake society. Reincarnating to further conceal the truth being a front-runner of the age old galactic duels... tortured when in honesty you dwell try to be good and you will swell Wise and cautious they tell you to go to hell We were poets, me, myself and I I I I the crew of I knows it all too well multiple selves telling stories from different times the self beyond and the corpse before before time was time and after time has ended the scribes golden will live on I was a poet and I was told I live a lie We were poets, and we were I.
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Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
We Were Poets
Writing poems and songs of the heart we were confident that love would find a way but what place to accommodate? At which place would she stay? So many words you can say but words are just words can you feed her stomach? as a poet you'd fill her soul but would you be a man to build a home? She said: talk is cheap, your wallet is airtime, so many words you speak, but can you put your money where your mouth is or are you weak? We were poets, crafting words and building worlds however to the material world it was daydreaming We had no titles as lovers, neither bf's nor husband's we created a system of our own which to the world would be ridiculous a love note has a posting fee and sending is perilous We were poets with hat-tricks but scorned as bald men who bewitch. So much innocence in the beginning and now the deafening chaos with happenings a poet may swallow his sorrow but can he eat his words? In a world where money is a god how soon before he bows... with no living you're at the bottom of the tower and conspiracies enlighten you with truths that are sour wrestled by frustration you'd wish you could teleport to super universes where being watched by satellites isn't the union's verse But in the world, the coarse and bitter Earth how can a poet enliven his words? Perhaps preach to religion, anoint light sorcery, appoint fair government and breed an awake society. Reincarnating to further conceal the truth being a front-runner of the age old galactic duels... tortured when in honesty you dwell try to be good and you will swell Wise and cautious they tell you to go to hell We were poets, me, myself and I I I I the crew of I knows it all too well multiple selves telling stories from different times the self beyond and the corpse before before time was time and after time has ended the scribes golden will live on I was a poet and I was told I live a lie We were poets, and we were I.
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41
__Please call me back,__ written message in the network's text. I don't have enough airtime; so I'll borrow some. Knowing it's not the best—in the fact of being underpaid. I haven't been paid this month, so it's still a dream of moving house. The funds are never enough, but just tuck shop money, and a gin allowance for a couple laughs. But I'll call you soon. _7.50,_ left in my bank account. Maybe I could pull out six to make the call. __Insufficient funds to complete this transaction,__ the screen read in bold. Feeling insufficient, sufficiently to say I've worked my due. If I had a girlfriend; which place could I take her to, and what would we do? As I'm broke and empty on funds and dreams in my pocket. While driving past the mansions of my two bosses. But I'll call you soon. I'm running out of rhymes, without any airtime to Google new ones on Rhymezone. So I'm just staring at the phone, hoping you make the repeating call. I missed it the first time you beeped me, knowing I was feeling tearful in my room alone. I must have been so focused on staring at the pictures on the wall, to hear your call. But I'll call you soon. As both of my lines have pending debts, and I'm not keen on borrowing  money to have debts with friends. But in the end—your fun size pride rarely cares. Still the anxiety of not making an effort to call back, pushes a reason to swear. To pull my hairs, struggling on why—why I can't return your call. As if I don't care at all. But I do; I'm just fighting to call you soon. Unfortunately in the end; I never had the chance to support you my friend. I never returned that call, and it's doing in my head. It's an unfortunate one missed call.
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Jul 30, 2022
Jul 30, 2022 at 4:22 PM UTC
One missed call
__Please call me back,__ written message in the network's text. I don't have enough airtime; so I'll borrow some. Knowing it's not the best—in the fact of being underpaid. I haven't been paid this month, so it's still a dream of moving house. The funds are never enough, but just tuck shop money, and a gin allowance for a couple laughs. But I'll call you soon. _7.50,_ left in my bank account. Maybe I could pull out six to make the call. __Insufficient funds to complete this transaction,__ the screen read in bold. Feeling insufficient, sufficiently to say I've worked my due. If I had a girlfriend; which place could I take her to, and what would we do? As I'm broke and empty on funds and dreams in my pocket. While driving past the mansions of my two bosses. But I'll call you soon. I'm running out of rhymes, without any airtime to Google new ones on Rhymezone. So I'm just staring at the phone, hoping you make the repeating call. I missed it the first time you beeped me, knowing I was feeling tearful in my room alone. I must have been so focused on staring at the pictures on the wall, to hear your call. But I'll call you soon. As both of my lines have pending debts, and I'm not keen on borrowing  money to have debts with friends. But in the end—your fun size pride rarely cares. Still the anxiety of not making an effort to call back, pushes a reason to swear. To pull my hairs, struggling on why—why I can't return your call. As if I don't care at all. But I do; I'm just fighting to call you soon. Unfortunately in the end; I never had the chance to support you my friend. I never returned that call, and it's doing in my head. It's an unfortunate one missed call.
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36
It's going to be a jolly grand day Nothing will get in the way This life is boring Time to go snoring I'm done with 'noRmALitY' And ready for a fatality I buy a lot No food for thought I buy what I can find Who cares if it's a crime? I'm looking for airtime This is out of hand... As I take more and more sand "I'm HUNGRY!" OH, iT hAs HIt Me I'M FEEling PReTTY fuNkY I WAnt TO dANCE I Want TO PrANce i SEe a lEDGE i'm ON tHe EDgE I loOk DOWN REaDy For THE cOuNTdowN THreE, TwO... "one"
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Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 6:56 PM UTC
Gladly Madly
The phone rang and no one dared to pick it up, All they said, they had heard and seen enough, Was it a call meant for them or for us? A nation out of peace, liberty and unity, A nation formed from the dreams of our fathers, A dream manifested by the unification of tribes and ethnicity, Breaking down segregation and discrimination, Black, white, yellow, red and plain, Embraced and unified as one for the greater good, But our father said do not be fooled, For it is not always as it appears to be, Unity could be pleasing to you and me, Alas!! tyranny is just lurking around waiting for an opportunity, Our father called to warn us but no one picks up, Perhaps tyranny is sitting silent by the phone, Perhaps it’s our greed and pride that’s our enemy, Could it be that we answered a call and it was a wrong number, Asleep or awake from our slumber, In darkness and poverty slums, crossroads, Need us not to say but our suffering is for all to see, A cry from the gutter heard but ignored, A house will be strong if it survives an earthquake, A nation will be torn if it embraces my faults, Leaders will fall if they embezzle my thoughts, But this is my phone call to my nation, One last time before I run out of airtime, One last call to my people, By ISSAI
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May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
A NATIONAL MISSED CALL
The words went The Land OF The Free But apparently that Did not mean you or me. The words went All men created equal. I think they will want To change that in the sequel. The words went And So God Created Man. Maybe the Causasians Saw another way it ran. It seems the white people Thought it meant only them. The rest of the colors? Their chances were slim. Those not Christian Were seen as the enemy. Change the name to animals That’s what the Christians did see. Not all the Christians, true For some heeded the words of Christ; Those with wealth and money They armed themselves for a heist. They turned their Jesus Into a trademark commodity And declared all other ideas Either blasphemy or an oddity. They bought airtime and then Bribed some weak-kneed politicians; Made laws against the rest Even if we buried them in petitions. They put up tents and temples Like golden bejeweled mansions And proclaimed as holy Each and every gilded stanchion. They bought the best robes Highly expensive rings and shoes And claimed they were helping The poor they chose to abuse. We are meant to revere them And their gaudy choice of dressing And humbly hit our knees Then pule and grovel for their blessing. Because they didn’t mean For us to take that free stuff far. After all, they are rich We’re nothing but what what we are.
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Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
DECLARATION OF DEPENDENCE
**people cry when a lion is shot in another country but no one cares about the 17,500 people trafficked into the U.S. each year. we care more about Miley's latest hair choice, than the thousand of homeless teens. nobody wants to put in into perspective, or think about it. because maybe if we ignore it long enough, it will go away, as if sitting and watching Netflix, will somehow provide starving families with food. but, we don't talk about that, because it's not "socially accepted". if you care about anyone but yourself, you're not normal, how is it that Justin Beiber gets more airtime, than the people trying to change the world. everyone talks about how terrible the world is, but so few are willing to do something about it. oh well, i guess, go back to youre blissful ignorance, who am i anyway, to make you ponder such things.**
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Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
open your eyes
she said she love me, I should sent airtime we chat, I sent airtime only to call for confirmation, it became a routine daily please call me. one day i never called, nor send airtime. fire!!!!!! nagging!!!! insults!!!! questions!!!! do you love me??? she asked. if you dont sent me airtime, its over between us. what should i do????
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Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
is this love
BLACK I am black coz I walk under the sun all day! I am black coz my anger dictates my tone! I am black coz the police is my friend! I am black coz ave swam in gutters and bath in rains! I am black coz I rode tires and felt excited! I am black coz mummy and daddy was my favorite game! I am black coz of chike and the river! I am black coz my best haircut was skin punk(molo)! I am black coz I never wrote 1jamb! I am black coz unilorin was always my 1st choice! I am black coz OMO is what we call all detergent! I am black coz of my village people! I am black coz I tried making my own Airtime! I am black coz every Noodles is indomie! I am black coz I believe in God but juju is a back up! I am black coz all shoe makers are aboki! I am black coz ur fada is a big insult! I am back coz up NEPA is a joy giver! I am black coz I dnt shout back at my parents! I am black coz I always go on strike! I am black coz every Musa is a gateman! I am black not because the mirror nor my skin tells me that but because I have experienced all this. Black is not a colour but an identity!!!                    Ojuolape Isaac Mfa
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Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 1:50 AM UTC
Black
Contemporary. Con Temporary,and that conned me into believing that it wasn't forever,it, never is,is it? but we learn to survive though they drive the drivel right though the middle of our urban sprawl,and we learn to crawl,then to walk,to talk Spangalese,then it's back to our knees and dribbling,oh please,don't tell me that. Adverts that pervert me,prevent and circumvent my understanding of fair play,oh contemporary is today, of that there is no doubt. I should make notes of this,tomorrow may come and I might miss what is contemporary ,but for today. I should play the contemporary game,buy some airtime,gain some fame,but contemporary goes so fast just blink once or twice and it has passed, I cast a line to secure more time but it's no use and so I hang free and loose swinging in the noose and wondering what it was all about.
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Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
Contemporary
pink is for friends and red is for a lover i want someone to give me cover (how you glow) i've got a secret everybody knows and your days have been tragic we've got to protect our magic it'll sail on wires through the night bathed in soft pink lights and in five hours' time I'll let you be mine it's up in the air it'll work out fine as long as I can be yours and you can be mine and we'll get airtime we're too young for this old space the very next time I see your face I'll be dreaming I love the sun and you, you are the one to take me across this field this field this field where I buried my heart and we become stardust our palms turn to rust hills along the skyline built for airtime
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Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
airtime
You can throw me Right into the wall, But I’ll still walk Right down the hall Your scratching stick, And that scarring stone Every day you’ve thrown. I was always on my own, Now those scars are my throne. Swimming through the ocean, I’m a duck, sleeping in the open. But the teeth will soon bear, You’re not the only one to rip and tear. I’ve also got subtle flair.
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Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 11:28 AM UTC
Airtime
warm and white all over like the black Alpha channel; the dead poet has the queen's face in the dark time of the year to go snooch hunting with the state of green mixed with white; Radio's big child goes to sleep in the left hand corner and I, the living Jesus, Maria dreams to find golden in order to form the United States Americans handpicked poetry; And the blood of phosphorus in the soldiers; For those years, that appeared on her ***** they call at the rate that is in hell to a wife or a girlfriend in the future; Of the sickness, which the women had to choose, the blue, the sky, or the kids, to do as of history. Black Alpha Channel warms to the white head resting at the feet of the dead poet who has to face the queen of something dark in that period of the year for which the fair snooch is the death of a large green state as the Beaming young big skin of the sun shines into the left corner of money, INRI the living Jesus, sees seas afire, forming on the United **** Of Golden Dreams, finds poetry; the stars of the blood of the war live, the calling rate is said to them of old slippery ***** with hair hell male or female the wife of the future; Sky blue soccer kids out like women choosing to coin a word of history; American thinking the baby is the cool young boy, lost his gold called the real body, a specific book; a walk across the stream behind River High, Spirits who had turned yellow with water on his Hands; poet children coming to drink from him at the door open mouths full of dental work,   St. Igor drunk and listening to the better side of the ancient airtime's running   agreements
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Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC
The United **** Of Golden Dreams
warm and white all over like the black Alpha channel; the dead poet has the queen's face in the dark time of the year to go snooch hunting with the state of green mixed with white; Radio's big child goes to sleep in the left hand corner and I, the living Jesus, Maria dreams to find golden in order to form the United States Americans handpicked poetry; And the blood of phosphorus in the soldiers; For those years, that appeared on her ***** they call at the rate that is in hell to a wife or a girlfriend in the future; Of the sickness, which the women had to choose, the blue, the sky, or the kids, to do as of history. Black Alpha Channel warms to the white head resting at the feet of the dead poet who has to face the queen of something dark in that period of the year for which the fair snooch is the death of a large green state as the Beaming young big skin of the sun shines into the left corner of money, INRI the living Jesus, sees seas afire, forming on the United **** Of Golden Dreams, finds poetry; the stars of the blood of the war live, the calling rate is said to them of old slippery ***** with hair hell male or female the wife of the future; Sky blue soccer kids out like women choosing to coin a word of history; American thinking the baby is the cool young boy, lost his gold called the real body, a specific book; a walk across the stream behind River High, Spirits who had turned yellow with water on his Hands; poet children coming to drink from him at the door open mouths full of dental work,   St. Igor drunk and listening to the better side of the ancient airtime's running   agreements
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22
Standing wild-violet-timid in careful shoes, I collapse into Monday. My internal weather is spiky with low-level nausea. Brain fog, mind-cloudy at first, with a high chance of precipitation across the afternoon. Externally, the settling cold front will bring morning squalls before a high-pressure system arrives in the early evening. Difficult to know what shoes are needed   for this day, this time, let alone what armour, masks, and steel with this climate, this energy... Hard to predict what will be stored in memory by this mind, this brain... This questionable, yet seldom questioned, recording of events, from my flawed perspective only... Should I attempt to trust myself today? The answer neither clear nor confident Instant reflex shoulder shrug With gaze-avoiding fizzy nerves A patent hint that I may be     a trifle less than competent What lens will shape my history today? And will it light me kindly or in glare? When my parts construct the story Hope they break it to me gently But I know that my track record     not-so-subtle hints beware    If my brain detects a glimpse of faults or glimmers of malfeasance, it will use these torts to make the case that I deserve all grievance from a host of inner parties with a wavering allegiance the impedance to agreeance is a tendence to vehemence, so How will I use the playback from today? I could use it well in kindness or in pain With the re-runs stealing airtime From productive contemplation I could use it as more proof that     I should not have trust again… Tomorrow, I will wear my security boots, with stronghold socks.
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Nov 9, 2024
Nov 9, 2024 at 3:21 AM UTC
Which shoes should I wear?
Standing wild-violet-timid in careful shoes, I collapse into Monday. My internal weather is spiky with low-level nausea. Brain fog, mind-cloudy at first, with a high chance of precipitation across the afternoon. Externally, the settling cold front will bring morning squalls before a high-pressure system arrives in the early evening. Difficult to know what shoes are needed   for this day, this time, let alone what armour, masks, and steel with this climate, this energy... Hard to predict what will be stored in memory by this mind, this brain... This questionable, yet seldom questioned, recording of events, from my flawed perspective only... Should I attempt to trust myself today? The answer neither clear nor confident Instant reflex shoulder shrug With gaze-avoiding fizzy nerves A patent hint that I may be     a trifle less than competent What lens will shape my history today? And will it light me kindly or in glare? When my parts construct the story Hope they break it to me gently But I know that my track record     not-so-subtle hints beware    If my brain detects a glimpse of faults or glimmers of malfeasance, it will use these torts to make the case that I deserve all grievance from a host of inner parties with a wavering allegiance the impedance to agreeance is a tendence to vehemence, so How will I use the playback from today? I could use it well in kindness or in pain With the re-runs stealing airtime From productive contemplation I could use it as more proof that     I should not have trust again… Tomorrow, I will wear my security boots, with stronghold socks.
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35
High school I was new to this love thing Crushes were a usual thing I never really acted on it I was never one for relationships Things change though I remember when our conversations started Not too long after, it felt like something was missing when I hadn’t heard from you You were one to stay after school I was one to go home I never believed in extra mural activities but then I fell in love with someone who did For some reason, her cellphone battery span was only enough for the school day but nothing after that I got used to it It became routine to get home from school knowing it would still be a few hours till I heard from you Oh man When you finally got home, you’d have to juggle between giving me attention, taking a shower and doing schoolwork Our phone calls would be brief My broke *** never had airtime like that Those short calls were almost predicting the future of our relationship. Short but somehow, meaningful. You were the first person to introduce me to red flags You were my first real relationship I’d like to believe I loved you I guess I dived in a little too quickly, too soon You did everything right I had no standards No expectations I was along for the ride - no matter how short it turned out to be I didn’t even know myself back then Almost 10 years later and I still have memories of how dishonesty was a comfortable place for you I made excuses for you The worst part was that I made excuses to myself, for you I betrayed myself On multiple occasions I vouched for you To myself I held you at a higher esteem than I held myself I remember this all too well We were in different schools You were one of the popular girls I was the one with the jokes We were never meant to be Somehow, you caught my attention You spoke words that eased my uncertainty I believe you loved me at some point I just wasn’t what you were looking for I was in the slow lane and you were in the fast lane No matter how many gears I switched, you were always way ahead of me You broke my heart when dishonesty became normal You broke my heart when lies were just a part of your conversations You broke my heart when I had no business giving it to you It’s ironic I had no business loving you but I never made that any of your business Instead, I gave you the best of me and you gave me enough to keep me at bay Moments later, you flipped your switch to a red light and I stopped. Time taught you that you had lost a gem while getting rocked to sleep at night. When your light turned to green i was already in a different lane It doesn’t take me long to get over you It takes me a while to get over what you did to me I wish we did better I wish we never met in the capacity of a relationship Sincerely, a now broken church kid.
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Jul 30, 2020
Jul 30, 2020 at 7:42 PM UTC
To The Girl Who Broke My Heart - Part 1 (High School)
High school I was new to this love thing Crushes were a usual thing I never really acted on it I was never one for relationships Things change though I remember when our conversations started Not too long after, it felt like something was missing when I hadn’t heard from you You were one to stay after school I was one to go home I never believed in extra mural activities but then I fell in love with someone who did For some reason, her cellphone battery span was only enough for the school day but nothing after that I got used to it It became routine to get home from school knowing it would still be a few hours till I heard from you Oh man When you finally got home, you’d have to juggle between giving me attention, taking a shower and doing schoolwork Our phone calls would be brief My broke *** never had airtime like that Those short calls were almost predicting the future of our relationship. Short but somehow, meaningful. You were the first person to introduce me to red flags You were my first real relationship I’d like to believe I loved you I guess I dived in a little too quickly, too soon You did everything right I had no standards No expectations I was along for the ride - no matter how short it turned out to be I didn’t even know myself back then Almost 10 years later and I still have memories of how dishonesty was a comfortable place for you I made excuses for you The worst part was that I made excuses to myself, for you I betrayed myself On multiple occasions I vouched for you To myself I held you at a higher esteem than I held myself I remember this all too well We were in different schools You were one of the popular girls I was the one with the jokes We were never meant to be Somehow, you caught my attention You spoke words that eased my uncertainty I believe you loved me at some point I just wasn’t what you were looking for I was in the slow lane and you were in the fast lane No matter how many gears I switched, you were always way ahead of me You broke my heart when dishonesty became normal You broke my heart when lies were just a part of your conversations You broke my heart when I had no business giving it to you It’s ironic I had no business loving you but I never made that any of your business Instead, I gave you the best of me and you gave me enough to keep me at bay Moments later, you flipped your switch to a red light and I stopped. Time taught you that you had lost a gem while getting rocked to sleep at night. When your light turned to green i was already in a different lane It doesn’t take me long to get over you It takes me a while to get over what you did to me I wish we did better I wish we never met in the capacity of a relationship Sincerely, a now broken church kid.
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