The Foreigner from a Distant Land

I am a foreigner, from a distant land.
I speak your language but you don’t understand.
I have hands like yours, that are never praised
I have eyes like yours that can also gaze.
I know you came from the land of my father
But then why can’t we accept each other?

It is sad you think that you are better
But if I am stupid, how did I write this letter?
My strength you use to beat your butter,
But whether I’m hungry or not, it doesn’t matter.

I know one day I am going to belong
That Is why I comfort myself with this bitter song.

It is hard to sleep when I hear the loud bang
From thoughts of my family members being forced to hang
You try to keep me on your little hook
Your ears burn when you hear me read a book.
You can take away my bread , and burn my clothes
But whatever you do, we will never be foes.
Being strong and running fast is something I’ve learnt
I’ve been chased like a dog betrayed by my own scent.
My only way to escape from your trigger
Is to hold my breath and cross that river
Restricted in life and even by who to love
Praying for the freedom you will never have
Soon , you will stop judging me by the colour of my hand

But until then I remain a foreigner from a distant land.

In the friend zone

Conspiracies to save the Queen

That zebra has three stripes: 
White, black and 
You just watch them  mingle. 
They don’t cross, never fight, don’t lie. 
The third is when you decide 
your mind’s eye is almost always right; 
Then colour blindness can also lead to spite. 
  
Opposite from mine resides your frame’s local 
delight. The longing of your soul’s recurring fight. 
  
The fourth quarter 
 is the corner you wrestled against 
drivers threatening to 
dribble your 
cards to the third 
strike you slid, your lips tightly clutching the but 
between the screeching of 
fires when you were slapped 
by briefcases of fliers: 
  
You’ve come to visit. 
Sad excuse to linger. 
With each sip of passion,’ I’ll leave soon 
 turns’ to longer. 
As bullets of electrons, 
We run in lost triangles 
You gave another  excuse of how our 
lips skipped out 
on our  first kiss. 
We do this for hours. 
But while your mind…

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The Foreigner from a Distant Land

Inside Information

Inside Information (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am a foreigner, from a distant land.
I speak your language but you don’t understand.
I have hands like yours, that are never praised
I have eyes like yours that can also gaze.
I know you came from the land of my father
But then why can’t we accept each other?

It is sad you think that you are better
But if I am stupid, how did I write this letter?
My strength you use to beat your butter,
But whether I’m hungry or not, it doesn’t matter.

I know one day I am going to belong
That Is why I comfort myself with this bitter song.

It is hard to sleep when I hear the loud bang
From thoughts of my family members being forced to hang
You try to keep me on your little hook
Your ears burn when you hear me read a book.
You can take away my bread , and burn my clothes
But whatever you do, we will never be foes.
Being strong and running fast is something I’ve learnt
I’ve been chased like a dog betrayed by my own scent.
My only way to escape from your trigger
Is to hold my breath and cross that river
Restricted in life and even by who to love
Praying for the freedom you will never have
Soon , you will stop judging me by the colour of my hand

But until then I remain a foreigner from a distant land.

In the friend zone

That zebra has three stripes: 
White, black and 
You just watch them  mingle. 
They don’t cross, never fight, don’t lie. 
The third is when you decide 
your mind’s eye is almost always right; 
Then colour blindness can also lead to spite. 
  
Opposite from mine resides your frame’s local 
delight. The longing of your soul’s recurring fight. 
  
The fourth quarter 
 is the corner you wrestled against 
drivers threatening to 
dribble your 
cards to the third 
strike you slid, your lips tightly clutching the but 
between the screeching of 
fires when you were slapped 
by briefcases of fliers: 
  
You’ve come to visit. 
Sad excuse to linger. 
With each sip of passion,’ I’ll leave soon 
 turns’ to longer. 
As bullets of electrons, 
We run in lost triangles 
You gave another  excuse of how our 
lips skipped out 
on our  first kiss. 
We do this for hours. 
But while your mind denies each 
Second is distant. 
You only get one stripe. 
  
Shake, stammer stutter. 
Watch my soul still 
In laughter. 
Quench me , trembling , tease here. 
I want you in between the 
Scissors that never cut or lost the 
Pathway which I endorse, swung 
To bring you when she saw the weight for you to belong 
 to me won’t be long 
to me if not 
for a grain of salt. 

You are not hers, and I’m not yours yet 
you only get one stripe 
But I long to be purple with you. 
You can choose to gaze astray 
Into grey eyes, or play it like me 
And just watch the zebra crossing 
  
beyond the friend zone. 

Pull That Trigger

Oh so you want to commit suicide?

Ok here’s your gun. Go ahead.

Pull the trigger.

No wait! Can I have your  Nike shoes though?

You don’t need shoes in hell;

Your feet will dance regardless.

But before you go, think of me

and how hard  it will be

to rid the

blood off  my new shoes.

 

Think of the cursed kids in Cairo.

They’ve never had more

than a few maggots for dinner.

They’ve never had their feet in a class or

 church. Their eyes never graced the sight of

sin. They are born

 into darkness;

impregnated by selfishness.

They  never had shoes.

And yet, they still

Dance daringly in the

Devil’s playing field.

 

Think of my friend,

the ant

who’s forced to carry three

 times the weight of

burden on  its heads. But yours is

weightless

hair.

The ant toils  just to live

in the comfort of the

soles of our feet.

It bleeds too;

not by choice

or by reason….

You did it.

 

The world needs

More worthless workers

Like the ant.

We all run

This race

But barely surpass the

Tortoise.

So often in life we cry

That we have no new shoes

Until

We meet

The man with no feet.

But we live life expecting

 the man with no feet to

just walk by.

Life never worked like that.

You  take the steps 

to be first.

See, you are not weak,

You are only weaker

than the man with no feet.

Yet he still runs the race.

We choose our pain.

Besides, the world needs

more space.

 

But I believe you have a great purpose.

Once your finger snaps,

your pieces will be

folded into the sand as a great

feast for my friends,

the ants.

The leftovers will

then grow the seeds that are sown.

And the fruits and veggies that sprout

from your lovely soul

will be parceled and shipped and

danced over the rivers.

Until finally it

Lands deliciously on the

 plate

of my friends,

The African kids.

Ignorance is bliss.

But all these dreams can come in  to play.

We can all be blessed.

If you must take

that last deep breath

And you just

pull  

that

 trigger.

Inspired by Us

The Word or The Deed

On thundered drippy days like this,

when  we must escape to sneak and  kiss till

it’s better for you to unwind and sit soaking

the world open view of the

scenery from  beneath the soles of  your shoes.

When our temporary pleasures have overwhelmed us

with guilt and addiction.

When we must  listen here to avoid

the talking that deceives our passions

into lust driven from fears  abandoned.

You cannot serve two masters. My words are clear

when we must recount the jewels

from our histories’ mouth.

Sand strikes through trials

When we must choose between pain and obsession’s dimes:

the chore of obedience or temptation’s loneliness,

when all we taste is the yeast between our legs.

When we must see that this jungle between

heaven and earth resides

only in the hearts of our heads.

When we saw these things blur,

now we see the saints of our souls:

those mortals we were once made to forget.

Their hearts quench in vain. The enjoyment they are

Stalking will only leave them

delayed.

When we must drink to our last

regrets  and then lay in wait

as we proclaim that things we see began not as digital waste.

When the focus of our souls becomes contagious,

this sunny mellow tent grants us   the fantasy we once possessed.

Ecstasy, bliss

Euphoria!

The preaching of doubt. He sounds possessed; addressed

by his one true love.

When the leeching of neglect has not protruded his  thoughts yet.

Then what lonely solemn regret lies

beyond the shame?

What soul’s regret?

What stress?

When we must sit and vent

till our paths are made clear:

he packs for another roll, his soul is

Wet. Ecstasy.

Euphoria! Indeed.

I lay in watch  as our ease turns to passion.

His tongue dribbles against the strips.

Her fingertips caress the edges

Of his joint’s thin escape.

His index curls in at the tips curbing

the endings perfectly as her mind behaves.

This choice of life was to follow

Tree or to stand by Me.

When its me she feels . Her thirst

stays quenched free.

Her  body is not the strip you see

detangled through its silked  laces:

It’s a waterfall.

My hold seduces the memoir of her tears.

She does it to feel closer in to me.

He marvels at how green it looks when the

light descends from a yellow surface spilled with

the distraction of years.

Time seems to have come to its final

service and he doesn’t know that its really

Me.

He knows not why he pleads in need.

His sorrow discerns when  hearing the jingles of my

Echoed words.

For fear of growing older with

time, he first picks up on Joker’s thirds.

His heart is here,  but his mind is elsewhere

hidden in My Palace,

we sit in doubt.

This guy, we grew up together.

We thirst for eachother, we’ve been drinking plenty

but never sipped the fountain water.

We prefer to taste from the air than

On our knees.

All these strangled thoughts

when we must choose

whether to remain in loss or to

Cease this reality from what captivates our destiny.

Either choice is meant from when ‘when’ becomes eventually.

Fear is the prison that we choose to keep.

We must press on what we discover till

our souls  are lost but yet still feel

each other.

We were never awake.

With a deep breath intake, we

didn’t have to feel sorry.

We blew smoke in My face.

Now you  can feel My light

ascending against your desires;

Not the tree, you desire me

raining on  you hard as you absorb

the glow of My sunny mellow tent.

Our intimacy is appalling.

With a final lick, we both smile at the end.

The promise of a false beginning.

Our flame burns till we are quenched.

Two lonely friends.

The Life of the Dead

The Life of the Dead

The mountains are melting

The lizards and lions lay

Dead. Others are still talking.

Stuck in this void

Of enduring deficit.

Precious pets are left to burn.

Babies’ lungs are soaking wet.

They are still talking.

The real news is still

Unheard.

Piano keys, wound up harps, crooked clarinets;

Beats of breathe.

Wise words of life’s

Depths are chosen

To be unsaid.

But they are still talking!

Disturbed into fear of mentality

Lost, I learnt to block them

Out instead, clouded in

My thoughts.

The world is turning.

Soon we will all be

Dead. One day, all won’t matter.

This he said or she said

Will be nothing

but echoes of lost lingering

Mortals stuck in this void

Of enduring deficit:

The life of the dead.

I asked for it

I asked for it

                   So if you are wondering how that ‘used to be’ gorgeously exotic  girl drenched lavishly in blood, dangling lifelessly from a 30 feet telephone wire got there, then you are slightly ignorant. No better yet, you are insolently stupid.  The real question you should be asking is ‘why?’ Well, don’t worry; I saved you the pain and energy of even the thought of thinking. This letter which you will find plastered on my desk was torn reluctantly from the center of my ‘not so secret anymore’ diary. Don’t worry about the rest of the book, I burnt it right before I did this. As much as I would have loved to leave you all with the misery of contemplating for years the causes, no the art of my death, here, I did you guys a favor. Here’s something to tell the news men. My last thoughts, my only words:

Dear Silent yet Strained Listener,

It was getting really late this Thursday night. I had to race against time just   to get to my room; I just hate being around these people for too long. Today had been just another day in kindergarten. And as usual I was very tired.  Mostly disgusted by their pettiness, I had no choice but to listen to the bullshit all day. No really, I have no choice.  I try so hard not to count chickens while I walk. I feel like they are stalking me; their words only grow louder. I even went to the extent of walking around with the pressure of my purple head phones squashing my poor burdened head: my failed efforts to block the chatter out. But apparently that only makes me look like a deluded lunatic. Oh yeah, I heard that about myself too. This is a day in the life of a mad black woman who has nothing better to do than to just sit there and be talked about.  If this were a movie, I would be the star. How could my life get any easier? Wish they’d shut up! I don’t blame them though. I’m quite the fascinating gem. When you live in a small space like this, you have nothing else to talk about. Nothing better than yourselves.

Today I had decided to take a walk without my headphones (because apparently my life dearly depends on what everyone has to say). Okay, not really, my hearing was getting faulty from all the exerted noise. But like you guessed my defense against going deaf ended up going against my sanity I heard everything, and I mean everything. It only made me even more depressed. The only thing I could possibly do was to move as quickly as I could. You see, I too have had to play the role of the strained listener, the audience member who never volunteered but yet was ridiculed by the power crazed comedian. Yes, I knew that until I took my last bow, I would forever be a slave to a flock of nonpaying spectators. But one day all was going to be different because one day, everyone would be choking from the guilt and lack of space, congested by that many pretenders stuck on a stage. Hope you enjoy the performance!

Ok Listener, enough of daydreaming about desert, back to the main course of my miserable day! So I had to dive and dodge skillfully through cock pits (I mean that figuratively), battlefields, bullshit and then finally the cherry on top of it all! I had to play the invisible witness in the pretend game of war; my enemies versus my enemies… but I’m the target. Don’t you just treasure Thursday afternoons? I know I do! I’m quite the happy camper! And that’s just without the drugs.

First of all, I had to endure the excruciating pleasure of ears bleeding from hearing one of my ‘comrades’ speak of how oh woe is he, the poor gay black socially oppressed guy who has to undergo the discrimination and  pain of society’s demands and pressures. I’m telling you I hear this song every day on my college record. He just needs his dick removed. And yet such oppressed individuals get off from telling everyone at lunch the newly released story of my life: how I magically woke up and became a ‘whore’. Oh woe is me now. The things I never knew about myself. Maybe we can call my final act a fight for my rights. At least now I can go to my grave knowing that I did something about it and now the world will be a much better place: free of mouth trafficking prostitution. Hey, I had no choice ok, I’m just another slave of society like the person reading this: the investigators, the news crew, my ‘friends’, the police, my  loving roommate, my professors after they check me as absently dead, trafficked prostitutes, socially abused gay men everywhere, my unfortunate parents and oh before I forget, my dear silent witness, you, my dear reader.

So my day got juicier. Some random Jamaican girl approached me in the library telling me how she was thoroughly interrogated by her other Jamaican friends about my presence in her life. She spent hours telling me seductive stories about the campus population’s growing concerns and how I stole boyfriends, did endless drugs , destroyed families, burnt papers as my contribution to global warming, cut through roses instead of myself and maybe killed people.  Apparently there was a recorded case of me majestically somersaulting over a highly raised bar with a broom stick as my high pole just to knock, no brutally attack someone on the head. I curiously asked her if I had any dangerous weapons on me that day because at this point I could have murdered an ant. I did not find any of these fun facts funny at all. Who knows how many other helpless victims I might have assaulted? And if so why is there still a crazy African murderer on the loose? No one knows. All I could do was to suggest that the school buy more security cameras because I might have assaulted all the eye witnesses too. They, who are they? No one knows. This talk concerning the campus ‘protection against me’ program took too long. I had to finish my paper which was due that night. I nonchalantly agreed and bid her a safe walk away from me in case I decided to do what I do best as soon as she turned around. And off course this all happened within the silence of the library. Just when I thought I had discovered my final destination of solitude. At this point, I just could not wait for the day to be finally over and done with just so that I could go and have one of my priceless talks with my roommate, the only person who really understood me. I love and trust that girl with all my heart despite the social characteristics that tell us apart. Apparently she had just arrived on campus with a terrible cold from spending the weekend at the beach with her boyfriend . Somehow I found it hard to sympathize with her text because it was mid-February after all and the land had just seen snow. I still felt kind of bad; she is a singer with a beautiful voice.

On my way to my dorm, I stopped by my Geography professor’s office to hand In my paper. I was however paralyzed by the sound of weeping, moaning and groaning as I walked towards the office  door. It sounded like he was really given the class ‘valedictorian’ a lesson about the friction and sliding between the earth’s plates. I shook my head. So this is how you get extra credit, huh? I wanted to play ‘knock and run’ but I smiled and then carefully slid my paper underneath the red door. My paper was greeted politely by the mysterious silencing of the sex sounds behind the red door of the secret sex chamber. It was like a muzzled police siren.  This is how I also deservingly got my extra credit. I didn’t even have to say a word.

Finally! I had arrived at my dorm. Just when I was climbing up the staircase, I overheard the voices of two people complaining to each other about something. And as usual one of them sounded nosy and oppressed and the other just sounded like a man with a very scratchy voice and a bad cough. I did not care initially because both voices sounded like mumbling to me. As I got closer up the stairs, the words became clearer. The girl said desperately, “ you guys can’t split up! You are wonderful together! A match made in heaven.” I giggled to myself, it was my RA speaking. But who could she be pleading with or talking about? My curiosity forced the microphone of my ears to extend for the first time. I had never in my life been the eavesdropper. Now I know the kind of satisfaction that the rest of my campus felt. It was like going to a live drama or opera…. For free!! Then the man, shaky toned spoke in frustration “Well , the truth is I only put up with her because I didn’t think she would be back again this semester. I don’t like her. She’s not a nice person and she’s nasty. She says the nastiest pessimistic things. I want her out for good. I can’t deal with her she’s so nasty!!!”

It finally dawned on me. The painful truth had revealed itself. I knew exactly who they were talking about. It was like a bullet being blown through your teeth and then heavily sinking down your gut. I now knew who the voice belonged to. The shock of it all! They were right; the knife only stabs more when you can’t see it coming especially when the agonizing jab is struck from within than over your flesh. Some things are harder to believe especially when you are the one with the front row seats.

“And Candi- Oh shit!” my roommate choked on her own words. Her manly voice was not man enough to carry that last note. The shock of seeing me obliviously walk by was startling for them both. All I heard was a gasp of horror and shame. That’s the last I heard of her, my only true friend. I shouldn’t have even bothered. The truth only corroded my heart yet alone my ears? I didn’t even need the ice at the end of my name to soothe the ache I could never tame.  The pain always burns deeper within than when it’s on the surface.  I should have known. I had to narrate the story of my day through the tears that bled on this diary page. The truth can kill, even more than words, what more the memories? It’s like a volunteered, permitted death. But I asked for it.

           “And you will be hated by all for my name’s sake. But the one who endures to the end will be saved.” – Mathew 10:22