What do you say when someone dies?
When the supermarket flowers aren’t enough.
And the food I bring begins to grow old,
Placed on a table, buried by piles of stuff.
I could buy a million roses,
But in a week, they would have died.
They might crumble in your hand,
and they won’t fill the void inside.
I know that the calendar won’t change months,
And the clock will freeze in time,
And the bells will softly taunt you,
when they begin to chime.
So I stand upon your doorstep,
But my hands refuse to knock.
I usually know exactly what to say,
But now, I’m afraid to talk.
I look to the heavens as if they’ll answer,
Today, the sky is more gray than blue,
And I whisper to whoever is listening,
“He cries every time he thinks of you.”
I wish we could fill your hollow bones,
With food, flowers and some dessert.
But you already seem too heavy,
In your eyes, I see all of your hurt.
I guess this is part of life,
I’ll be honest, we don’t know what to do
So I’ll just silently stand here by your side,
I’ll always be waiting here for you.
I’ve always said life moves fast, but,
Buying these roses today was never planned.
And now I’m standing at your door,
Staring at the supermarket flowers in my hand.
These aren't houses,
Just sterile prisons,
It's not about housing,
If it were they would be giving the homeless real accommodation,
Making people feel good about having less,
Isn't minimalism or for the sake of welfare,
It is to lower the standard of living even further,
Be grateful for eating bugs and living in plastic boxes,
Have we learned nothing from the past?
The Romans, the Egyptians, and the Victorians,
All had a similar class system - look what happened to them!
In the end, it all becomes obvious,
When you act the same way, and expect no recourse,
You are doomed to follow the same pattern as your ancestors.
Everyone wants to be famous,
But no one cares to be talented,
Taking the time to learn their craft,
Most want to be known for nothing,
A personality without substance,
Easily thrown away, and forgotten,
A vibrant face can turn rotten with age,
Sacrificing who they are for the promise of riches,
It's poison to the soul,
One that won't you make you whole,
Contracts that turn you from a free bird into a trapped one, stuck in a cage of paperwork, and signatures
You don't own your words,
Ironically, people want fame until they get famous,
Then they realize the reality of it,
Attention is nothing but false adoration,
People get bored and gravitate to the next thing,
So, be aware of what you are trying to get,
Because it may become one of your biggest regrets.
sticky note poem
burn the backs of eyelids
& shower shadows slower,
why is your love so narrow?
So, the mother~ship
Landed after a long trip
Wondering what kind
Of planet this was
All of her children
Seemed to be quite bedridden
Not ready to be left
In a place that was in a bad state
Every single one of the crew
Were tired of eating only stew
They longed for something
Maybe a little bit or more tastier
Along came a cloaked figure
Winding in a boat along the river
The figure let out it’s hand
Sprinkling some golden dust
Everybody on the ship
Began to trip
Soon they started to sink
Into the ground—’twas quicksand
Their cries were drowned
By the mighty waters rushing back
And forth along the bank
No one could save them
None of them stood a chance
Against the cloaked figure
Who’d known how to
Easily prance o’er the mortals
Whistling back down the river
Under the light of the moon
Waiting for the next traveler
That would have to face Décès!
#Décès! (c) 29th Juin, 2022.
so damn hard
to be perfect
and to fulfill every expectation.
I do everything you ask,
then go above and beyond.
I do it with the prayer
that maybe soon you’ll love me.
And it hurts.
and play the perfect daughter
so that you’ll never have to explain
why our family is in fragments.
I comfort your children, stifling my own tears
and be the mother you’re supposed to be.
Yet when you look at me
your eyes say I’m not enough.
And it hurts.
You will never truly see
exactly what you’ve put me through.
There are scars tattooed on my conscience
and scars that once bled crimson.
And you’ll never get to see those scars
because you don’t care to accept the truth.
If I were to show you
my ears would ring from your melodic screeches.
And it hurts.
With every step
it gets harder to breathe.
And every step I feel
myself slowly shattering.
But somehow I’ve succeeded
though I’ve been weighed down
by iron chains you bound me with.
I’ve amazed even myself.
Then I realized what hurts so much.
The poisoned arrow you pierced me with,
that once inflicted nearly fatal pain
was the moment when I saw
that in your eyes:
I only ever fail.
It all starts small
the ends fold inward
pinning your hopes inside
creating a terrible quagmire
Beginning to fall
the domino affect goes onward
cowardice & death coincide
a harbinger of the finality about to transpire
The inevitable downfall
an endgame progresses forward
misuse of power has become amplified
cohesion of society is about to expire
Crumbling of the Great Wall
the collapse came so fast it’s absurd
the Halls of Power stand unoccupied
as we all bare witness to the ruin of an Empire
There she stood waiting, and watching— with her eyes on the bêtes. The crowd surrounding her were in silence.
Many of them slightly trembling-some would say it was from the cold~ but really when one faces a horde of bêtes
from the cave, you had to remember to hold your breath. You see the bêtes can smell fear from a kilometre away, ready to pounce on anyone who stood in their way!
She growled back in defiance as the bêtes began to make their trek toward her. Moving with such great force enough to drag a royal barge across the jungle.
The bêtes leaped into the air, ready to strike their foe. As soon as they were airborne, she raised her spear, & swung it like she was reaching for mangoes that were lodged at the top of the highest branch.
A group of gifted artists from the tribe banged their hands on the Ngoma sets. Then a sound of ululating followed coming from a band of young, as well as older females of the clan.
The young warrior’s heart was racing. Her entire body was scarlet, drenched in red from head to toe from the remains of the bêtes that she had managed to extirpate.
After the corpses of the beasts had been buried in the caves— the young warrior created her own armor from the bones of the bêtes.
Now when she would be in another battle, she would be able to channel the spirits of the bêtes.
She can use their spiritual energy to b’ ever Victorious!
#Bêtes! (c) 29.Juin.2022
How do you know what you want, unless someone else has had it? How do you choose to pursue success, unless you believe it makes you happy?
Why is it that, I cannot be satisfied with any accolades, any amount of achievements.
For when I choose to label something I have done with satisfaction as ‘success’, it is then my heart says ‘no, more has to be done until that word can be said’.
How many days will it take, how many posts on social media about careers, relationships, and friends will it take until I say ‘I succeeded.’
Or will it be at the end of my life that I look back and still think ‘I could have succeeded more’.
Why are we driven to this idea of success, this forward-moving train of hustle, power, work, ambition…
Success is this mountain peak that has been famously talked about - it has streams, rivers, a gorgeous wildlife and an evening sunset that makes one stop and stare.
But as we are climbing up this mountain, we are thinking ‘is this the place?’, ‘do I need to climb up more?’, ‘what happens if I stay here?’, ‘but everybody else is climbing up!’
How do I stop and sit, when the whole world is telling me to keep going up?
Of the apocalypse
Catering to your
As quiet vampires
Haunt your dreams
Is the denigration