The easiest way to put it, is that I want to be saved.

The easiest way to put it,
is that I want to be saved.

I believe we lie to ourselves,
everyone is waiting for reassurance,
a promise that there is better awaiting.

Everyone thinks they’re worthy of prophecy,
redemption by default.
Ah that lurking thing!
That hovers between our sides, that aches and moans for conviction,
we’re sentenced into madness.

But she waits for no one,
she’s poetry,
and she never has to write a word,
speechless servitude,
graceful and clear,
tunnel visioned,
loyal to her cause.

I’ve seen women drown in prose,
who wear fire on their eyelids,
and they’re hardly the soul you’d want by your side,
and others mute,
hiding behind a veil of concern and courtesy,
and you’d never know who they are.

Choke on your mind,
gag on your ability to put another man down,
feed that insatiable self until gluttony is so habitual,
it’s inevitable you’ll be the only one,
left to your wit and mock,
the lonely laughing stock.

ย W.E.
#happyvalentines

introversion – fifty four

Whether your introversion makes you write odes,
whether you write computer code,
whether your writing looks like an engineered skyscraper,
an exotic car,
a weaving of humanity through the fingers of the third world,
whether you throw yourself into the confines of a cage or between the square ropes and engage in a violence that most people wouldn’t ever dream of,
you’re writing the story of yourself, always writing.

There’s a script in the backdrop of your subconscious that is taking notes on its own. Waking to that realisation will help you manifest a calmness and direction you’ve only ever dreamt of.

The delusion of the world, in missing the point of a passive introvert is a blessing they will perhaps never comprehend.

Some people feel guilt for their passivity,
I don’t.

I’m controlled by a wave of mercy I have towards the undeveloped minds of men who want to remain infantile, by a knowledge I have a deep recession of savagery you’re privy never to experience.

It’s all gravy baby, but you’re still lucky I don’t fuck you up.

W.E.

introversion – fifty three


I like lonely things,
no, I’m obsessed with them.

When everyone is chasing the tail end of importance,
clawing at finding semblance,
I’m content to eat the crumbs of their efforts,
or so I tell myself.

Perhaps I love all this solitude,
because it makes me the only isolated thing,
in a world that is so magnetised to each other,
in a backdrop so filled with noise,
it is hard to stand out.

W.E.

 

Millennial privilegeย 

You won’t get what you want without first offering something to the world.
The idea of default entitlement is ludicrous and shows the futility of your understanding of the world you live in.
I often have to pull myself away from people who are stuck in the rut of holding people or the world hostage, that is literally and figuratively pointing a gun to their head or a knife to their throat forcing them into guilt by holding them to an unestablished standard that they assume is owed to them.
It’s impossible.
You don’t deserve a single thing, not even respect if you cannot demonstrate your worthiness of respect or that thing.
The chronological order is that you must first put out value to receive it.
The world always reciprocates in kind and if you are too shallow to see it, whether literally or philosophically, then at the very least it will fill you with contentment that you have exhausted yourself in courage and nobility to achieve those ends.
W.E.
#respect #millennials

dear grief – 23

There’s a heavy feeling of being hovered over.
Like an appointment is waiting and I don’t feel I’m ready for it.
There’s sadness brewing,
an overwhelming sense of helplessness,
for the first time in my life,
I’m anxious about death.

Like I’m short-changing myself, my children, my potential.
How does a three year old reconcile with losing a father when he’s ten, sixteen or thirty five?
Will his thirteen year old brother hold his hand, mend his mother’s heart, reassure his angry brother, force himself into a fortress of solitude, but a solace of rectitude?
Why should he have to endure such hardship,
why should his sister have to be given away by him and not me?
Why should he hover over his nine year old brother like a hawk, anticipating his next self loathing moment?

Why should he be forced to name his newborn after me, in memory of me, honouring a cultural tradition that prides itself on who can grieve the hardest.
As if keeping a name alive long enough demonstrates the grandest love.

What I do know is that once you lose someone to death,
they immortalise in waves of grief,
oft returning grief that crashes and dissipates,
yet washes like it was never there.

That’s why I’m addicted to the sea,
I drown in grief daily,
its salt is always on my lips,
always in my eyes.

W.E.