Platform Two To London Waterloo

Platform Two To London Waterloo

I thought that our tale would be like that of

A Regent Queen's and A Charming Prince'

So I spreaded myself on slippery steel chairs,
hung around platform edges, anxiously looking through the
nooks and crannies of gliding train doors.

I kept on waiting for a train that never left it's station.

I waited and waited, like children do for the ice cream van

except it was winter and my heart was
still stuck in summer.

I was on Platform two to London Waterloo
when I finally saw you.

You were sat with her at the coffee shop,
watching while she tenderly ate her bagel.

Your face was beaming like a light tower at night.
I saw it for a split moment...your silver smile.
It was the one you wore when you
listened to your favourite
song.
She was the quietness in your noise.
The type of quietness that
I never could be.

Lemon

His love was as sweet as lemon,

the fights we had were ripe with grief,

the kisses we shared always left some bitter taste in my mouth.

But even lemons taste okay with a pinch of salt.
And if his love was like lemon I was ready to be his salt.

A lemon ft my hand.

My mother's daughter

 I am my mother's daughter,

Always eager to carry people on my back

when they'd never dare to hold my hands 

I give and I give until I have nothing left to give.

My mouth runs faster than a leopard

Like a wood frog my feet refuses to 
touch the ground on gloomy days 

I am my mother's daughter, 

I could try to fix a broken glass

With a pinch of prayer and a tub of glue 

I am my mother's daughter,

I pick myself up before I fall.

You are so strong. 
I am told

If only they knew how heavy

the waters fall from my eyelids at night.

Like rainfall in the Amazon forest.

But even after the heaviest rainfall

comes sunshine.

Chokers, crop tops and skin tight skirts..

How comfortable do the chokers feel?

Do they cut your words every time you try to speak?

And the white crop tops?

How many times do they remind you 

to tuck in your stomach 

-just like your other insecurities?

Do you sometimes feel like

unpacking parts of yourself then stop

because other men may get threatened?

And the skin tight skirts..?

Do you hear their silent whispers

when they tell you to

keep your legs closed?

I was born for the loose shirts

and flared pants.

They help me run far,

far away from ideologies

and break out of boxes

created to constrict me. 

Pretty Picture

We are picture perfect

until the picture becomes prickly,

poking at even our smallest insecurity.

Filtering our flaws away, because

pretty pictures turns people's pupils.

So we put on masks to match expectations,

forgetting the long term implications.

They say imitation is the best form of flattery -

Our feeds are flooded with flat belly,

fat back, five foot something IG sculptured models.

Forget the pretty pictures, the models and the expectations.

Why not go on an adventure?

have some cuddle nature -

time is a priceless expenditure,

don't just spend it for the picture

How much are you willing to splash out

for a pretty picture? 

Dear black man

Dear Black Man,

You are loved.

You are good enough.

Even when your shoulders droop

from all the baggages the world throws at you,

you still crack a smile.

When people pour buckets of sand on your wound,

you never let them hear you wince.

Everyday they continue to label

and put chains on you

but you refuse to stay down.

Dear black man,

I see your innate ability

to protect everyone you love.

I see all the different masks

you have to put on the moment

you step outside your door.

I see your struggle in the battlefield,

fighting off ideals and paradoxes

of who you are and who you would like to become.

I am here for and with you.

I cannot heal your wounds,

that can only come from within you.

But I can hold your hand through your pain.

I can sing with you, war songs and all.

I can wipe off your tears when you cry.

Can I touch your hair?

It looks too good to be true

Can I touch your hair?

I would like to validate your authenticity

Can I touch your hair? 

I want to alienate you 

more than you already are

Can I invade your space

even against your objection?

Can I treat you like a shiny object,

Like a toy to entertain my curiosity.

Like how my forefathers explored

your land and took everything from you.

I too want a bit and then maybe some more and more...

Can I unravel the mysteries behind your magic?

Deep

It's not that deep

He said as he dug through me.

As if unfolding the lining in my stomach

Was not enough.

He smirked and licked his lips

I closed my eyes and anticipated

the damages he would do.

It's not that deep he said as he ate my insides 

he spreaded my thighs on his leopard printed sheets...

"I don't mix drinks", he said.

Me too I thought

I don't mix drinks

only anxiety and beliefs.

A cup of lust, a handful of prayer and a sprinkle of self doubt,

An Unnamed Poem

Our love is like a ripe tide 
-a result of two currents 
meeting at the surface,
trying to find a balance.

It knows no pretence, hence 
In the midst of aversion it 
rocks the bottoms of boats 
With doubts Unknown.

Our love is not like roses.
It oozes of warm bodies 
in rooms with no windows.
Of sweaty palms and 
packed theatre halls.

Our love is like an anxious baby 
learning to walk.
It is also like an old couple
dancing by the seaside
Struggling to remember 
their first dance. 

Our love does not escape 
in times of misery.
It lurks in the corner of our lips, 
Quivering then biting away our fears.

Our love is not candle light dinners
Or two lovers holding hands in the sunset.
It is two children standing in a sandstorm,
With their eyes closed 
wrapping themselves into each other.

Our love is like old paintings 
Hanged in a hallway no one 
dares to walk through.