Is there much of a place for someone who can’t accept criticism? Can’t build on people’s well ment comments. Can’t add to themselves.
Is there any room for one who insists on who they are without getting to know who that is and what that means?
I mean what room is there for growth without making the effort to discover how?
How do i sit here and be. Waiting to change. While consciously, purposefully avoiding all chances of that happening?
There is self acceptance from self knowledge. Bringing self love.
And there is self deception.
A laziness from words stored inside you wont let out. There is fear of judgement from people who are better or worse. There is pretending you dont care and that this is not something you want. Or wanted.
There is jealousy of the successes of those who give enough of a fuck to put in the work. There is envy for the success and recognition you dont deserve.
There is me. Running around with all these words. Unwriten. If written, unpublished. If published unperformed. If performed not effective. Inneffective. I am.
Is there any room, any place at all for a poet who has run out of words? Out of buildings. Out of steam.
You demon of a human being
Been running around in my head trying to keep me down
Making me feel things that make me frown
With slow days that seem never ending
Long nights of silence that’s too quiet
No rain or rustling of leaves
No wind or chimes
But those would annoy me too
I am stagnant
Surrounded by caution tape and stop signs
A hollow fool
A full on hollow fool lives here
Full of anger
I love you
I want you
I hate that i want the wanted
Always taken with the taken
And since i saw that you have what you
Need to be what you have to feel needed
Validation is pissing me off
I want to break this disquiet
But its all me
I am seasons of discomposure
I like setting limits that my body always surpasses
Running away from my feelings
And giving into them still feels the same
Two different kinds of pain like
Starving myself hurts different from over eating
Insomnia and somnolescence
Imbibing versus tasty abstinence
Not having a place to escape too
And seeing you feels like heaven
Kissing you feels like Cassiopeia
Loving you feels like breathing
And seeing you leave feels like darkness
I feel that i should accept vexation as my portion
Feelings will always trick me into believing their permanence
I need to learn (I say to myself)
To accept (again)
That i cant love you towards me
I just need to love you from here as you walk towards her
To another season of celestial torment
Im suffocating under the weight of my words
*Black Bleeing Hearts*
Who are you to ask me who i am?
You dont ask me, you tell me
Saying it one more time…”Your not kenyan”
I am not kenyan?
Who made you the governing authority on all that is Kenyan?
Do you want to see my ID? My passport?
So there are white Kenyans, Indian Kenyans, but apparently Kenyans from the diaspora aren’t real kenyans?
Is it cause my accent is different from yours?
Are the kikuyu and kamba accents the same?
The kisi and Luo and Luya?
Are they? No
So why does my accent amuse you?
Yes, yours amuses me
But i never question your nationality.
So what makes you think you can question mine?
I know my mother tongue…but no i dont speak it.
I know swahili, but i dont speak it that often..
Honestly because i don’t have the “swahili accent” (whatever that means) so you laugh when i speak like its a joke.
The only joke here is you thinking you can define a nationality by and accent.
Or even by knowledge of geography.
Or knowledge of language.
Or least of all personality.
I am tired of that question.
“Are you Kenyan?”
Can we move on now…
*if not…refer to the beginning of this piece cause im tired of your assumptions*