The perfect kind of lie

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Picture gotten from- AJGIEL

It’s not the same old. It’s not the differences in passing time either. It’s the new ways I’ve learned to listen, hold hands, rejoice and share. I’m a bit swollen from it all.

My head yearns for more. The drive pushes me every morning to be productive, to not call it a day until I play my favourite songs whilst doing something tangible. I can’t describe how fast these days go by, how they tend to be so full of nothing that really matters, how some of it can be so selfish and lonely. In gaining more, I’ve lost a lot more, forgetting often that people can only bear what they can for a certain time. I’ve thought about others as well, how quick these people have grown, how far they’ve come. It’s mostly unthinkable yet very impressive.

Everyone has got nights they choose to sleep their worries till morning or drink it all away, “party it out” or just sit and think about them. I wish I was just like everyone, at least what aches would be much easier to bear.

My truth is living what I’m happy for. Watching the people around me and far as well growing at their own pace. My truth is learning from others, learning these new ways to write, learning new ways in all and new survival instincts too. It’s self-distrusting but I hold unto myself most times unshakingly. It’s very pleasing in the end.

It will be the perfect kind of lie if I told you my strings were intact or that everyone enjoys my kind of rhythm. I wouldn’t be telling the truth either about my fingers, what they type to ex-friends and those who pretend to care. Sometimes, I want to scream at people who find their route back in Malanda’s words “I’ll tell you what I’ve been and it will scare you!!”. Sometimes I wish I knew how to perfectly play the savage role.

It can be frustrating not knowing who to run to, to dump all the noises in my head or whose shoulders to cry on when I lose my breathing to tears. I demand for myself every time moments like these occur, I become my own comforter. I most times ponder on how other girls just like me get through. It can be daunting. I forgive myself everytime it hits me that my happiness is in openness, it’s in little things, it’s in where I can connect tiny dots without role play, it’s where I’m not by myself.

How can life be this meaningful with so many complicated ways of passing and reading meaning into it?

How can these people lie about coping with meaningful connections without breaking a little?

Talking.

 

 

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017.

 

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Sedative sentiments

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Picture gotten from-Jannaleadams

Let’s awaken the grieve of Joy,

the little laughs with babies, foe and your toy.

We can be generous with words,

writing with rhymes against all odds.

 

Here’s my token of wealth,

here’s love, happiness and my skin the way it’s felt.

Could I wander in your tones of delight?

your selfish looks and chin that will drop in my plight?

 

I want us to write in this kind of poems,

send love and hopefully one day, we make them under these elms.

We are both heavy with choice, the one to receive, the one to send.

I don’t want this fate, this rush nor this blush to end.

 

We will chase these little ones soon,

in cloudy, rainy and sunny days and bloom.

We will hold hands with peace, with soul and a dance.

I wish these all, in words would be our chance.

Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017