P A R C E L OF T R U T H

You will be okay.

You will be fine.

Right here is where you begin to wonder

Whether there be any true comfort in these words of mine.

But will you accept what I offer?

I come bearing gifts.

Come on, do not leave me hanging, rather

Hang on to these very words…

You will be okay,

You will be fine.

Yes, I offer them again.

 

I could paint a magnificent illusion with my words for you,

Of the light beyond the tunnel and the ray of sun beyond the cloud gather,

You pictured it right? Point proven.

However, I am not in the mood for selling mainstream dreams,

So you will be okay and you will be fine.

I wish this gift of mine to you came with a tag describing when and how

But then I don’t since I am not in the mood for selling comfort either.

Truth on the other hand, I can sell everyday.

And this you already know, you will be okay and you will be fine.

You will eventually breathe better.

One day you will seek to lull yourself to sleep with the usual oceans that pour from your eyes and they will be scarce.

For the fist of pain around your heart will gradually but surely unclench and you will be overwhelmed by joy no longer fear and grief.

You will hesitantly welcome a stranger in who will befriend you,

He will need no introductions and he will consume you,

Your face, heart and eyes will pine for him because he is ample just like that,

His name is s m i l e.

Now that you’ve been briefly introduced, make sure you get acquainted later.

You thought it was a person? Him or her? Hmmm

Amazing!

 

So to you that I do not know, I offer that which I know,

You will be okay.

You will be fine.

How do I know?

I know since this is a gift addressed to myself too.

As I opened the door to receive my parcel,

Standing there was mailman Future, Present and Past.

Uncle Past was dragging Uncle Present down memory lane which was really my lawn but okay.

Showing him that the only reason he existed was because my “not okay’s” and “not fine’s” combined beautifully to create him.

Then Uncle Future turned to Uncle Present with a smile-whispering-hope and Present was assured.

 

“You are fine.

You are okay.”

They said to me as the trio walked away.

 

 

©  O.M

Cough

See, these thoughts are buzzing in my head.

Spreading everywhere, transported by the red in me.

Allow me use the silence of this moment to cough out these words

Because I can feel them slowly sucking the air out of me.

So let me cough them out before they suffocate me.

Please bear with me.

 

 

 

Home feels very far away

And I’m just inhabiting space upon space.

Home feels like my father’s sturdy arms on my shoulder and my mother’s care wrapped around my heart.

Home sounds like my brother’s jokes and my sister’s endless chatter.

Home feels very far away

And on a subtle level my heart is being tugged by another in Benin.

I’m just inhabiting space.

My name is Macaulay but I’m not home alone.

This house is just lonely.

 

 

 

Believe me, life is a beautiful thing.

I see the beauty in the irony.

With iron hands parents try to straighten “curved” children.

That somehow explains the beautiful tragedies I see walking around.

With voices crying out louder you believe someone would take notice but when everyone is getting silenced

Shhhhh you just might be next.

I was telling Sandra, Mike and Tamir how Bland the Brown Rice served in the cafeteria tasted.

They know nothing about that now.

When the minority begins to seek solidarity, that should make you question the popularity of the majority.

I dream in black and white but my reality is muddled up in grey.

Sometimes I wish I could colour some things in and make them permanent.

But Miss Saggaff said I wasn’t great at Art so I’ll pass.

 

 

 

Hold on now, I’m still coughing.

It’s serious if I’m coughing blood yeah?

You see these trailer jams haven’t exactly been easy.

Brutal something.

Everyone is coming for everyone.

I wish watching my back was even enough.

People aren’t scared to look you right in the eye and stab you these days.

So brothers and sisters can we hashtag the word front stab and make that trend?

 

 

 

I saw this question a few days back

“If you could write a note to your younger self, what would you say?”

It really got me thinking.

I’ll just leave myself a reminder right here to make sure I write this down later.

ORE WRITE THIS DOWN.

I’ll tell her to cry more.

I’ll tell her to feel more.

I’ll tell her these things don’t make her look weak, rather they’ll become parts of her worth embracing.

I’ll tell her to write more.

And I’ll tell her she’s doing a great job and give her a pat on the back because I’m extra like that.

 

 

 

Tonight he’ll drown the pain with burning gold.

And as it slithers down his throat he’ll wish it could burn off the shame clinging to his frame.

He downs down alcohol and the mercury in his courage-o-meter rises.

Liquid courage for the encounter he’s heading home to.

She’ll start with the alcohol on his breath and the false accusation that a woman’s scent lingers on his shirt.

Then she’ll get really angry when he asks her to keep her voice down because the kids are asleep.

A swift prayer goes up as her fists connect with his jaw.

Yes his wife beats him and he is too ashamed to say.

Well before you dish out the blame and give him a very generous serving.

Think…

I can still hear your thoughts screaming weak, nonsense, rare, impossible.

I can see the pity too.

He doesn’t need that, he needs a voice.

He needs to know that he can be heard when he cries out and that he will be adequately attended to.

He needs to know that people are fighting for him just as much as they are for his female counterpart.

 

 

 

So my friend is being lied to.

I don’t know if I should sip this tea

Or make it my business.

I’m scared she’ll think it my plan to join the #MoveToBoys2016 clan starting with hers.

Or as always she’ll throw the whole “you’re just jealous” ball in my face.

But I’m getting tired of picking the pieces and packing the faeces.

I really want to smack her hard.

Is violence really the answer or silence?

Should I stay or up up and away?

 

 

 

Well this cough is subsiding.

Thanks for your patience and shout out to Benylin.

 

 

 

                                   ©  O.M

I CANNOT WRITE.

I’m sure if this backspace key could speak, it would say ‘Let me be.’
A bin in the corner of the room overflowing with crumpled paper, yes the typical image.
Mine is however on the left side of this desktop and in this new age, Microsoft calls this a page.
I cannot write and I think the problem is me.

My hands attempt to hold my head in place.
For fear that it will explode with all this unemployed creativity.
You can trace out the frustration on my face,
As I struggle to free myself from this poetic captivity.

I cannot write.
How apt that this is my natural response.
Now watch me reluctantly rhyme write with right.
Oh how I cannot write.

Sometimes it comes to me like rain, trickles in.
Sometimes like a ray of light, it shines through a crack.
Other times I’m found in total lack.
And writer’s block claims the win.

“It’s just a phase.”
“Look for inspiration.”
My ears are exhausted by such phrase.
Wait, maybe I’m afraid my writing is truly a product of a phase.

Oh doubt, not you again!
I watch you grab my artistic confidence and strangle it till it’s barely there.
Maybe with years these verses would be worth calling poetry,
Or maybe they’ll never make it out.

I cannot write.
And the reason is me.

©  O.M

images

My First Time

A lot of people look forward to their first time.
Well so did I.
Until such dreams were snatched from me in my prime.
His hands slowly creeping up my thigh.
Such innocence forcibly ripped away,
Four hands pinned me down.
They said it was the way I let my hips sway.
A white gown; clawed, tainted and thrust in the muddy brown.

My first time, the less painful memory was the puddle I had cried.
Raw, sore, hate seeping through every pore.
I can’t even wear white if I ever become a bride.
More, more, four, gore. Back pressed firmly on the floor.
One at a time, they sequentially stripped me of my dignity.
Vocabulary diminished to these recurring words: Stop, Please, Stop.
Their friction threatening to snap the bands that keep my sanity.
But my pleas seemed to inspire them to swap

.

Memories buried tend to evolve into monsters.
This boogeyman comes out to play each night I close my eyes.
These scars never heal, they’re more like swollen blisters.
Please take this pain away, Anyone? Heaven hear my sincere cries.
The clandestine truth, bound and padlocked.
This monster needs no parole.
My very bedrock remains rocked.
I cry theft, my soul they stole.

My story is told and gradually I watched it unfold.
To my Creator, and in His loving embrace I securely stand.
In Him, I rise from my defeated state as a sheep, to a lion- bold.
It might be difficult for you to understand,
Why it was to him I ran.
When initially I blamed Him for after all He was God.
Well, its because He has the master plan.
And in His love, I remain awed.

Background: I spent a lot of this session studying about rape and I just had to conceive something regarding that. I know how I feel about such an atrocity and I pray for anyone out there who has experienced this heinous crime and I hope you find comfort in God because His love can erase all traces left behind and He can heal all scars.

©   O.M