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,

'Ah A Girl'.

(Birth)

The first time you came out

of your Mother’s womb

the Earth fell on her feet.

The Heavens close their eyes

and weeped for days.

The Antevasin had arrived

The One who

was stuck
in between borders.

Like a tired passenger in

the airport waiting

for his luggage at Arrival,

your father folded his arms

and watched you slide

down from your mother.

Born at 06:19 am on a friday;

A mother’s little bundle of joy

and a father’s silent sigh...

'Ah a Girl'.

(Adulthood)

You grew into a flower

that refused to whither.

Your hair thick like the forest

your family's tree stemmed from.

Each strand like a branch

coiled from the root to the tip

refusing to bow to the standards of men.

At 19 your skin shined like polished wood.

Men forgot how to pronounce your name. 
Instead they referred 
to you as their cravings - chocolate, 

black coffee, butterscotch,

brown sugar, oroe.

You became an assortment for 
them to taste.  
A to do list for the

ones trying to explore.

Who said you were allowed to be

anything order than the black

that they painted you as?

Day and night,

you are reminded of

the walking juxtaposition

that you are.

A preacher’s worst nightmare,

a sinners sweetest dream

and a bigot’s biggest fear.

You are nothing but a stain,

an error born by mistake.

Who told you

that you were any different?

Look at you!

A mad mans’ little witch!

One day, he too will pack up

and leave you.

For you are too bold

you are too quick

Your accent

and thighs are too thick

the walls you built are too high

You are too proud

Your ego is in the sky

and 'Men do not like that'.

You Are A Woman, How Dare You?

You are a girl so
you must sit with your legs closed.
We do not want little boys to
go peering down your skirt
You are a girl so come inside
the house and watch your mother cook.
Watch how she scrubs off the
regrets off her gas stove.
Watch her morning and night,
how she washes off the
lies and secrets from her hair.
Watch how she carefully
fold her palms, day and night,
praying against the ghosts of everyone else’s past.

You are a woman so you must sit
but not for too long.
Your man will get hungry if you do.
He will need to be fed 3 times a day;
your body, your food and your soul.
You may talk but never about
being tired, being used or being free.
Don’t you know?
You were created only to be used
and discarded by men.

You are a woman so you should
Always make sure the man feels loved.
Feed him your life until you stop breathing.
Always praise his successes and never yours.
Gently stroke his ego until he forgets his failures.
Wrap yours up and hold them till your hands tremble.

Don’t you know you are a woman?
How dare you dream beyond men and babies?
How dare you dream of exploring?
Of endless possibilities and alternate universes?
How dare you breathe too loudly?
How dare you walk for too long?
How dare you work for too long?
How dare you put yourself before others?
Don’t you know you came to serve?
Just like your mother and her ancestors.

How dare you come back home liberated?
Have you forgotten the way to the kitchen?
Where are the keys we gave to you?
How dare you use them to unlock other doors?
Doors bigger than the ones we showed you.
How dare you?

Trash, waste, dirt and bin.

The first time I took out the bin 
I let out a soothing sigh.
It was like thousands of poking needles 
were pulled out of my flesh all at once.
I tried to cry but bled then I healed.

The first time I took out the trash 
I realised that saying his name would change.
I never really could trust something about him -
it was the way he walked.
The way he puffed out his chest,
Like a peacock with his eyes 
searching for approval. 
The way his laugh echoed in a crowded room.
The way he constantly needed to be fed.
Attention, food, and my body.

The first time I took out the trash, 
I could lick the floor I walked on.
I took every step with uncertainty.
I did not know where I was going 
but I knew where I wanted to be.

I knew what I wanted.
I knew how I should be treated.
I retreated from every empty promises.
I walked away from conversations that failed to nourish my soul.

The first time I took out the waste I felt free.
I climbed to the top of the landfill and looked around me.
I saw parts of me that I had discarded
While scrounging for some soul.

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.

BREATHE

Breathe love, breathe

It will not be easy,

there will be days when

every tick of the clock 

will remind you of your failures

you will walk up mountains
despite doubting your ability to climb 
but at the top lays your essence of being 

nights when you press your face into your pillow 

crying away your frustrations into oblivion

there will be mornings when you wake up 

but will struggle to get up 

because your body has been paralysed with anxiety
 you will try to sleep off

disappointment and the anger

there will be afternoons when it seems 

like everyone in the world is against you

when they ask are you alright?

and you struggle to find the word yes

when all the nos accumulate 

and leave a bitter taste in your mouth

there will be seasons when men pour buckets of water 
to quench the fire in your belly

when old flames reignite

after you crawled through flames to put them out
  when ghosts of lovers past

haunt the castle you are building for yourself

when your insecurities hunt you down 
with pitch forks and torch lights -

looking to set your happiness on fire

But there will be a day when the storm will come
you will refuse to bury your head in the cloud 

like an eagle, you will dust off your heavy wings 
and fly to greater heights 
so breathe love, breathe

THE DEATH OF THINKING.

I HAVE BEEN TWISTING AND TURNING MY TIRED MUSCLES ON THIS ROCK HARD BED. 

SLEEP LINGERS AROUND MY EYELIDS BUT THOUGHTS OF THE WORLD RIDE ON MY MIND.

WHENEVER I PUT MY FINGERS TO THE KEYBOARDS, THE WORDS DISAPPEAR

but when I lay down to close my eyes, it all fucking comes at once. 

OVERTHINKING AGAIN, SPILLING NOTHING BUT CLUTTERS ON MY BLANK SCREEN

AHH SHIT I WILL JUST GET TO THE POINT.

Everyday as I grow older, my small talk skills slowly disintegrate into the background.

THINK JOY, THINK, WHAT DO NORMAL PEOPLE TALK ABOUT?

Ask her about her family and what area she lives in.

OKAY YEAH, NOD YOUR HEAD.

Oh awwh, that's nice.

SMILE, SHIT NO DONT SMILE, THAT’S NOT FUNNY.

OKAY, NOW YOU SAY SOMETHING, LOOK INTERESTED. 
No, don't say that, she will think you are judging her!
OHMYGOSH YOU ARE SUCH A PRUDE! She says..

But why does the world not know about breast ironing?

Are single black women in movies like Karate kids stereotypes or representations of realities?

Why is an aunty twerking on twitter?

HOW DO WE STOP FEMALE GENITAL MUTILATION?

Why did I never see jungle book as a child?

Will I ever be ready for a relationship?

DID I MAKE THE RIGHT DECISIONS?

AM I MAKING THE RIGHT DECISIONS?

FUCK OKAY DON’T PANIC.

THINK JOY THINK.

Or maybe stop overthinking.

BUT ARE WE BEING DESENSITISED FROM HARD NEWS?

Is it ethnocentric to think girls getting an early curfew than guys in some countries is not right?

Is freedom a western ideology?

Is that why we are still enslaved?

ARE WE REALLY IN A REVOLUTIONARY SOCIETY?

THINK JOY, THINK.

A decent grade student.

Life is hard, no one comes out of it alive.

You have family members who love you.

You have family members who do not know of your existence.

You have friends that make you laugh.

You have foes that make you laugh.

You have people who respect and value you.

You go to socials, parties, church services, debate nights, clubs, pubs and charity shops.

You meet new people, try to reconnect with the old ones in your life. Your days are getting longer and your responsibilities larger. 

You learn, you unlearn, you work, you spend, you eat, you sleep, you love, you laugh, you cry, you hurt, you heal, you let go. 

You are able to see black, white and everything else in-between.

Gradually your concept of life starts to change. 

You laugh a little less and you cry a little more. 

You are unable to tear the grey lines away from the black nor from the White.

You start questioning every decision you have ever made.

You start to wonder if you were ever happy or when you will be.

You stop being comfortable with your ideals.

You stay up till 5am in the morning, sometimes till 7 or 8 if your mind wants to run a little longer than usual.

You start thinking about your past, the history of how we all got here and what the future may look like.

Sometimes the burden gets a little heavy on your shoulder.

You scroll through your contact list and do the monthly cry on the phone to a friend routine.

Other times you try your phone a friend option and no one picks up so you sink even further in your ocean of self doubts and anxiety.

You start to realise that no one will be able to drag you away from your self doubts if you are not ready. So you wallow a little bit more in it or end the party and get yourself together.

Sister, brother, mother, father, aunty, uncle, wife, husband, spinster, bachelor, boyfriend, girlfriend, student, employee, employer, teacher, preacher, vegan, vegetarian, heterosexual, homosexual, transgender, biromantic, heteroromantic, homoromantic, asexual, straight, gay, bisexual, feminine, masculine, lover, fighter, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Jewish, pagan, atheist, agnostic, labels upon labels. 

You are asked to identify with one or the other.
Each tag puts you further into categories of structures and systems. Each decision you make is constantly being criticised by the people you know and by the people you don't know.
So close your eyes, you take a deep breath, you count to ten and you live.