Midnight Philosophy on Facebook.

Sometimes I like to wonder,

does my pen move

the same way as yours?

Does it

             dance?

Does it

             sing?

                        Does it

impel a grateful piece

of paper to smile,

and laugh out

tiny bubbles of its dream

to be admired in the Louvre?

Or does the paper bleed

angry droplets of deep-coloured

ink-blood from its ink-heart

from its ink-soul; or does it cry

little black tears

from its dark fountains of literature?

Does the paper feel

all of these things

as you sketch your last

line

or as I write my last

word?

What then, when every one of your pictures

makes words in the thousands?

How many more chunks of eternity

can you paint versus my poetry?

                    Yet you say I understand you.

Sometimes what you paint

flickers like in the movies,

and every frame

makes me wonder

if the way my pen moves

is just something someone animated

in her free time instead of studying.

Maybe then it wouldn't be too much

to say that sometimes

you sketch me into life.

Maybe then, this is why, sometimes

                    you say I understand you.

Even if I can barely hear your oxygen

over the noise of glittering pixels

that often disappoint us when we seek

more

than these strange profundities online,

where emotion is a commodity

and not ink... not paper...

It doesn't matter.

Because maybe my pen

was sketched by you.

And maybe

your poetry, your art

Dances. Sings. Smiles.

Laughs. Bleeds. Cries.

                                     Breathes.

                    So you can as well.

Happy Birthday Bianca! Thanks for always being fun.

Colour.

#VerbalEmancipation2014.

by Tawanda W.T Mulalu

(with excerpts from 'Blue is The Warmest Colour’ by Julie Maroh.)

Intro.

“And little by little, I understood that there were many types of love. We do not choose the one we fall in love with, and our perception of happiness is our own and is determined by what we experiences. Does that answer your question?”

I.

(beat)

No-

Let me tell you right now that red is my favourite colour

But I got it on with blue, some would say that that’s a blunder

I wonder is… infidelity the vibe of this poem?

Some secret guilt in my mind, that I’ve decided to be owning

Up to, I’ve got to, spill it out of my heart

I’ve had no idea what to say, but I’ve commited to start

A statement that’s an indictment to romantic commitment-

Let’s face it: when it comes to love, haven’t all of us been sinning?

At some point, nobody can claim to never ever have smirked

At their own version of the colour red in hoping that it might work

Even though your girl’s colour is blue and you know that this much is true…

You kinda now desire sunsets instead of plain skies; and thus seek a more maroon hue

(beat-beat)

Skies change with the sun, time influences that

But listen, honestly, what I feel, it’s deeper than that

(beat-beat)

Blue and red seem only to be opposite colours of the visible spectrum

But actually flow into one another, from point A to B, like a pendulum

(beat-beat)

So my real problem is denial: I’m not really interested in swinging back

Because whenever I see red again…I can’t help thinking that blue is just a fade to black.

And black scares me because it represents…

And black scares me because it represents…

And black scares me because it represents…

And black scares me because it represents…

II.

(beat)

Hol’ up.

Literature taught me that cheating is immoral but understandable

From the point of Gatsby and Daisy it’s not even that reprehensible

The thing is, I still see the American Dream in another colour

No red, white and blue and great starry flag of wonder

But being honest to the context I should only omit the white

And keep red and blue; so it follows that my greed is merely self-directed spite

In this way I am suggesting a hint of hatred towards myself

As I’m unable to colour-block my view of my colourless self

I mean that I’m disappointed in being able to reduce

Myself to old, novel characters…as a result I have deduced

That blue and red don’t matter when my true colours are grey

I’m ashamed in having even having tried (and failed) to pick (just one). 

But all the same…

(beat-beat)

Skies change with the sun, time influences that

But listen, honestly, what I feel, it’s deeper than that

(beat-beat)

Blue and red seem only to be opposite colours of the visible spectrum

But actually flow into one another, from point A to B, like a pendulum

(beat-beat)

So my real problem is denial: I’m not really interested in swinging back

Because whenever I see red again…I can’t help thinking that blue is just a fade to black.

And black scares me because it represents…

And black scares me because it represents…

And black scares me because it represents…

And black scares me because it represents…

III.

(beat)

Forget it-

I’m still wishing… her sunset becomes my sunrise, and envelops the sky

But regretting… her blue fades away, painfully, I’m left to die

As the sun will too soon turn to night, driving me to gentle panic

I know this now: colourless people always beg for a rainbow because they can never have it.

...Damnit.

I apologize to blue for making her feel even bluer.

I apologize to red for using her to make me feel better.

I’m sorry to myself for making myself so bitter.

So suddenly has my soul, become colder than this winter...

Thus the part of the poem where I conclude with the theme

Of the echoes within me which of course are only dead dreams

I had looked to you, red and/or blue, in hoping you could redeem

Me to your world of colour. But present reality is different, which can only mean

That...

(beat-beat)

Skies changed with the sun, time influenced that

But listen, honestly, what I felt, was deeper than that

(beat-beat)

Blue and red seemed only to be opposite colours of the visible spectrum

But actually flowed into one another, from point A to B, like a pendulum

(beat-beat)

So my real problem was denial, I wasn’t really interested in swinging back

Because whenever I saw red again… I couldn’t help thinking that blue was just a fade to black.

And black scared me because it represented…

And black scared me because it represented…

And black scared me because it represented…

And black scared me because it represented…

Outro.

“…you asked me if I believed in eternal love. Love is something way too abstract and indefinable. It depends on what we perceived and what we experience. If we don’t exist, it doesn't exist. And we change so much; love must change as well.

Love catches fire, it trespasses it breaks, we break, it comes back to life…we come back to life. Love may not be eternal, but it can make us eternal…

Beyond death, the love that we shared continues to live.”

Fin.

P.S You are free to check out the reader-friendly version here, along with some of my other poems.

MAKING THE BEST SPEECH.

'Zeus' at Debaters Without Borders (DWB) has kindly given me the permission to post this handy guide on making the perfect speech on my blog. 

But first, some quick info about Debaters Without Borders: it's a Botswana-based organization that focuses on encouraging the country's youth to engage in a variety of issues through Debate, and goes from school to school teaching public speaking and skills in argumentation. We also organize Debate events for high schools to compete against each other for prizes and of course, bragging rights. 

Our motto is very simple: Breaking the chains that bind. We want to change the way people think and see the world from the perspective of a Debater- meaning we  want to break free from the ignorance and fallacies that prevent us from excelling as rational beings.

Now, have a go at reading these tips and try applying them to all your Debates and Speeches.MAKING THE BEST SPEECH.


TIP 1.

Be Memorable:

Sounds easy in theory. Of course, it takes discipline and imagination to pull it off. Many times, an audience may only remember a single line. For example, John F. Kennedy is best known for this declaration in his 1961 inaugural address: “And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what can do for your country.” Technically, the line itself uses contrast to grab attention. More important, it encapsulated the main point of Kennedy’s speech: We must sublimate ourselves and serve to achieve the greater good. So follow Kennedy’s example: Condense your theme into a 15-20 word epigram and build everything around it top-to-bottom.

There are other rhetorical devices that leave an impression. For example, Ronald Reagan referred to America as “a shining city on the hill” in speeches. The image evoked religious heritage, freedom, and promise. And listeners associated those sentiments with Reagan’s message. Conversely, speakers can defy their audience’s expectations to get notice. In the movie Say Anything, the valedictorian undercut the canned optimism of high school graduation speeches with two words: “Go back.” In doing so, she left her audience speechless…for a moment, at least.

Metaphors…Analogies…Surprise…Axioms. They all work. You just need to build up to them…and place them in the best spot (preferably near the end).



TIP 2.

Have a Structure:

Think back on a terrible speech. What caused you to lose interest? Chances are, the speaker veered off a logical path.

Audiences expect two things from a speaker: A path and a destination. They want to know where you’re going and why. So set the expectation near your opening on what you’ll be covering. As you write and revise, focus on structuring and simplifying. Remove anything that’s extraneous, contradictory, or confusing.

 Remember: If it doesn't help you get your core message across, drop it.



TIP 3.

Don’t Waste the Opening:

Too often, speakers squander the time when their audience is most receptive: The opening. Sure, speakers have people to thank. Some probably need time to get comfortable on stage. In the meantime, the audience silently suffers.

When you speak, come out swinging. Share a shocking fact or statistic. Tell a humorous anecdote related to your big idea. Open with a question – and have your audience raise their hands. Get your listeners engaged early. And keep the preliminaries short. You’re already losing audience members every minute you talk. Capitalize on the goodwill and momentum you’ll enjoy in your earliest moments on stage.



TIP 4.

Strike the Right Tone:

 Who is my audience? Why are they here? And what do they want? Those are questions you must answer before you even touch the keyboard. Writing a speech involves meeting the expectations of others, whether it’s to inform, motivate, entertain, or even challenge. To do this, you must adopt the right tone.

Look at your message. Does it fit with the spirit of the event? Will it draw out the best in people? Here’s a bit of advice: If you’re speaking in a professional setting, focus on being upbeat and uplifting. There’s less risk. Poet Maya Angelou once noted, “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Even if your audience forgets everything you said, consider your speech a success if they leave with a smile and a greater sense of hope and purpose.

That’s a message in itself. And it’s one they’ll share.


TIP 5.

Humanize Yourself:

You and your message are one-and-the-same. If your audience doesn't buy into you, they’ll resist your message too. It’s that simple. No doubt, your body language and delivery will leave the biggest impression. Still, there are ways you can use words to connect.

Crack a one liner about your butterflies; everyone can relate to being nervous about public speaking. Share a story about yourself, provided it relates to (or transitions to) your points. Throw in references to your family, to reflect you’re trustworthy. And speak like you’re having a casual conversation with a friend. You’re not preaching or selling. You’re just being you.

 On stage, you can be you at your best.


TIP 6.

Repeat Yourself:

We've all been there. When someone is speaking, we’ll drift off to a Caribbean beach or the Autobahn. Or, we’ll find ourselves lost and flustered when we can’t grasp a concept. Once you've fallen behind, it’s nearly impossible to pay attention. What’s the point?

In writing a speech, repetition is the key to leaving an impression. Hammer home key words, phrases, and themes. Always be looking for places to tie back and reinforce earlier points. And repeat critical points as if they were a musical refrain.

Some audience members may get annoyed when you repeat yourself. But don’t worry how they feel today.

Concern yourself with this question: What will they remember six months from now?



TIP 7. 

Use Transitions: Sometimes, audiences won’t recognize what’s important. That’s why you use transitional phrases to signal intent. For example, take a rhetorical question like “What does this mean” – and follow it with a pause. Silence gets attention – and this tactic creates anticipation (along with awakening those who've drifted off). Similarly, a phrase like “So here’s the lesson” also captures an audience’s interest. It alerts them that something important is about to be shared. Even if they weren't paying attention before, they can tune in now and catch up.

TIP 8.

End strong and Keep it Short:

What is the worst sin of public speaking? It’s trying to do too much! Your audience’s attention will naturally wane after a few minutes. They have other places to be – and don’t want to be held hostage. And the longer you stay on stage, the more likely you are to stray and make mistakes. So make your points and sit down.

Never forget: This is their time, not yours.


***

I hope you found all of those tips useful! If you're based in Gaborone, please keep a watch out for Debaters Without Border's future activities including an upcoming debate tournament and a spelling bee. DWB also needs the help of its citizens so its activities have as much impact as possible. Please like our Facebook Page  and comment, share, like and follow what we've got to say. Also, if you would like to invest, or know anyone who would like to help sponsor us, do not hesitate to email us at flairshsenwedi@gmail.com and tawanda.mulalu@maruapula.org.

Captions/Asleep.

A new pair of poems to celebrate the new blog design.

***

Captions.

She captioned his heart like she captioned
her own pictures of herself:

seemingly profound but obvious
and unrelated to whatever
touch-screen-camera-phone-app filter she used
to unshade her blackness,
his blackness,
their blackness; with digital 
skin-lightening cream.

As if to be dark was a sin.

And so she edited herself
to forgive herself. 
Because Jesus had eyes the colour of her contact lenses.
Blue. 

Because to be holy is to be arbitrary.
Because to caption his heart like she captioned herself
was easier than to just ask for his soul
through a no make-up selfie.

        Or whatever else she thinks is actually her,
        but still isn't.

***

Asleep.

When we grow up,
I will let our daughter
cry herself to sleep.

That way she will never
need nor expect
for her father's or her stranger's arms
to hold her so that she can fall

gently, gently
asleep.

When we grew up
our daughter never 
cried herself to sleep.

That way she never
needed, nor expected,
for her father's... for her mother's
womb to hold her
so that she could stay

gently...

gently...

asleep.

Our dreams were born in a coffin.
You made me promise
to always, always 
dry her tears
if I could.

***

Anyhow, what's new in my life? Nothing much- just the continuation of exam season. You'll notice the formatting of this post is a bit funny, well, that's because I copied the poems from my HelloPoetry account (http://hellopoetry.com/tawandamulalu/) and the html/ java-script stuff decided to stick around. I'm far to lazy to fix it so I'll let it be.

Also, I was awarded a really cool award at the latest 48 Hours Film Project Gaborone thanks to the team of youngsters I was working with ('Phoenix Productions').

The award was for 'Most Promising Filmmaker' and it's an hourglass trophy. I don't have a picture of it, so I'll post this little image below....

The guy who gave me the trophy, an awesome dude called Thabo, got the award himself last year. He also told us why he picked an hourglass for a trophy...

Because...

'Time is fleeting, but talent is forever.'

P.S  I'll write more about the 48 Hours Film Project at a later date.

P.P.S  I still need to write a post called 'Moon Song'. But...whatever. We'll see.

Everyday Again.

Not too long ago, I wrote this:

'The chords of your laughter, unexpected,
echo from the clouds above me
and scatter
like fragile light; dancing
across the green tips of grateful trees.

Briefly, I shuddered. Behind the bricked wall
of the cemented dreams I have of us-
I had head your little song of life.
But now I am smiling.
Your fragile light has made me grateful

to see the world in colour.'

A panel from 'Blue Is The Warmest Colour' by Julie Maroh...super worth reading.

The poem above is called 'Waking From Everyday,' and naturally, because I'm somewhat horribly unlucky, I've returned to everyday again.

I know I'm being vague, but I really don't know to write about it outside my own poetry. You see, the problem with a blog post is that, unless you're good at, writing about your own life can easily slide into solipsism... What I mean is that I don't think telling anyone about myself would be particularly useful, even for me.

So what's the purpose of my blog? Is is just to share poetry? I really don't know. All I know is that I'm uncomfortable with writing about myself unless it can be useful... unless I'm saying something truthful.

Alright, let's give it a quick try:

I met a girl, I liked her, things worked, she had to leave the country.

I honestly don't know how to make that sound any more interesting? depressing? enlightening? than it already is. Should I write about our dates or something? Do I even remember the things we said to each other? All I know is that it was fun while it was fun and that's really is all there is to it?

I'm not particularly interested in making a tirade about my feelings (which is markedly different from how I normally write, I know). In any case- there's bigger fish to fry besides whether or not Skype is just as capable of facilitating interpersonal communication as a restaurant.

Exam season.

I really wish this actually existed.

I kinda have no idea what to do with myself to be honest... and that was actually what I meant by 'everyday.' I don't know what to do about the near endless boredom of life and of people and of school and of...well, everyday. I'm still trying to decide whether or not losing the catalyst for my 'seeing the world in colour' is a ultimately a good thing or a bad thing. I mean, sure, a boring world is a boring world...it sucks. But at the same time it's reality, and it is never wise to run away from reality, even through poetry.

Admittedly said poetry is cheesy BS. But when you spend the greater part of your high school years wondering why you exist and if there's any point to anything, you'll honestly take what you can get. Luckily what I got was awesome. Unluckily, what I got had places to be.

 Lol!

But I've got bigger fish to fry. I've got to study hard and get good grades so that I can get a scholarship that will allow me to... study hard and get good grades.

Wait, hol' up. Something's not quite right about that...

... and I can't quite put my finger on it.


Anyhow, to end off this post, my new favourite poem:

Also check out 'Summer Farm' by the same poet.

Take it as you wish: whomever, whenever... because I'm just an image standing besides an image of me, endlessly; everyday.

Who am I again?


P.S I'll write about it properly later or something. I'm just really lazy and tired and such and such and such and such and such...

...and such and such and such...

P.P.S I'm on Hello Poetry. It's awesome.  (http://hellopoetry.com/tawandamulalu/)

P.P.P.S Yes, writing about, analyzing, and quoting from your own poetry is probably solipsism. Or if not directly is, then it's still irony in the context of this silly blog post. Sorry. :)

Three Stories. Three Poems. Three Pictures.

Short and sweet. 

(Hey, I'm on Hello Poetry now too. It's like Facebook but just for poetry..so check me out!  

 http://hellopoetry.com/tawandamulalu/

Also check out my friend Mzwandile's Hello Poetry profile. Really dark and deep literature: http://hellopoetry.com/mzwandile-poncana/ )

Anyhow, here we go; short and sweet.

***

I. 

A STUDENT'S THOUGHTS, LATE AT NIGHT.


Tired.

I had been able to close my eyes for a bit and even went as far as letting the blanket of black envelop me. Strangely, it had held me like no one didn't. In short, I was alone. But this time, content with being so: I could finally enjoy the voice inside my head.

And then tomorrow, once a concept that didn't exist, existed once again. Then my chest began to hurt. Exam sadness was setting in. It was thus the time to write insincere essays and meaningless equations. All for a certificate that will say I am qualified for something. For what, I do not know. All I know that I was once able to smile...not too long ago.

I said goodbye to my blanket of black and said hello to my gentle heart attack. And afterwards I logged onto more emptiness on a screen: dreams and seens. I didn't, I don't, understand anything yet. All I know is that I am suddenly not a child anymore.

LIGHTBULB.

Lightbulb; the moths flutter 

and beat themselves to death against an idea.

A thought, vivid like glass, bright like tungsten-

glows.

I am reaching out to mind again,

my wings burned and burdened...Wait.

I have lost track of my metaphors again...

But then again, like the moths,

I have lost track of many things-

except for the unknown light in front of me.

II.

EDUCATION.

“Dear [insert name of relevant exam board here],

I’m writing to tell you that being a student is not my life.  My mind has nothing to do with you. Your grades do not define me. So you’ll have to excuse me while I go read a book that I want to read and write an essay that I want to write.”

The smiling English teacher reads the essay to the class. Its author, an exceptional student, has received full marks for it.

This student will win a competitive scholarship…and will go to a prestigious university.

She will study politics. 

MONOLOGUE.

Stage lights go on and off,

every morning and every night.

Somewhere in some poet's bedroom window,

Somewhere in some lonely theater hall; she

        rises

and begins to speak her heart, her soul. The poet's

pen is the stage light which has glowed,written; she 

                  sets

having long stopped caring about anything else

as she was instructed to do so.

The applause is sad and silent, beautiful and brilliant.

And so is the dark... so is the dark.

III.

DREAMERS.

They essentially cheated on each other, with each other.

Day after day and night after night: Him and Her flirted in their bed sheets while whispering secrets. Each kiss acknowledged the existence of whomever they thought they were with; their mouths rarely parted in order to hide their uncertainties.

Their sad truth was revealed in a moment of affection. She said, ‘I love how you’re never scared of anything’ and he said, in post-coital reciprocity, ‘I love how you always put others first.’

Both knew that they were neither fearless nor self-sacrificing. Both knew that they were only dreamers.

THE ADOLESCENT POET.

As you go about your business,

      at the back of the school rugby field,

you search her body with your hands:

      you are looking for metaphors.

You instead find other, much nicer things.

***

Let me take some space to monologue a bit:

I've stopped writing specifically about my life on this blog (...until now?), and the blog has mostly become a space to share my attempts at literature ('short and sweet' because I'm lazy) with people. I don't know what to say about this. On one hand it sort of makes me happy because I guess it means I'm less solipsistic and self-concerned and self-obsessed now and that's always a good thing. On on the other hand, it is always painful to realize that you're not as special or important as you would've liked to be. 

I've always, implicitly, thought that about myself. Not in a grand 'I'm smarter than all of you' way...but in the sense that before I died I was hoping to have a Wikipedia article about me up. 

Isn't that such a pathetic life ambition? My greatest goal is to want a Wikipedia article about me? All with a cool-looking black and white picture of me looking intensely into the distance? What distance? What would I be looking at? Why do I even want to be doing that? Why black and white?

Nevermind that. But good news is that I've started reading again... after a series of addictions that include Cracked.com and Youtube my attention span has been almost completely destroyed. This is of course, as usual, along with my heart. So I'm using reading to run away into a place that only I can be, and also to see if I can try and surviving in reality by myself. I don't want to feel the need to be with other people but I do. I really don't know what to do about that... 

Loneliness sucks. But also quite suckish is the frightening realization of the continuity of life. It's easy to gain a sense of futility in one's romantic future once you're under the assumption the every girl (or boy) one meets is merely a link in a possibly never-ending chain of 'adventures.' So- why bother if it ends and starts the same?

Because it feels good.

Though at the same time we meet certain links that we believe are truly special, that we want to have forever. But at the same time we know that this isn't true because they'll be leaving to another continent at the end of the month.

Whoops.

You see how long I haven't written about my personal life for? That sounds like the plot of a stupid teenage love story movie type of thing and not my reality. Does it matter either way? Yes it does, not it doesn't. 

I'm over a lot of it. And by 'it,' I mean everything and anything. Maybe that's why I'm reading again. I don't know. I don't know if I want to be here or somewhere else. Thus, the difficult choice of what to read today presents itself...fiction or non-fiction? To be a scientist or to be a poet? Stuff like that.

Though I'm assuming I'll be okay. I'm always okay.

Only problem is I've always wanted to be more than 'just okay.'

I've always wanted...more.

This attempt at profundity is the original cover image for this blog. It's from when I was still fourteen... I'm seventeen now.

P.S The official release date for 'First Adventures In Adolescent Heartbreak' is January 14, 2015. Do check it out. Furthermore, they'll be a special blog post called 'Poems for a Somebody' at the end of the month. Again, do check it out. 

Night Sky.

"Evening."

Well, for the sake of the title of this post, let's pretend it is. Let's pretend it's dark out, and the sky is black except for the little, sparkly splotches of God's paint in the sky. You know, the stars that imply something greater, something humbling, maybe something even romantic. Let us assume you're thinking of impossibly philosophical notions and stuff- you're an amoeba in the universe; the earth is a grain of sand.

Let's pretend that you're falling asleep and the lights are out. You're in a blanket, it's cold; maybe you're not even in your bedroom. Maybe you're sleeping on the grass tonight because you thought it would be poetic or something. Maybe your headphones are playing Chopin. Maybe you're seeing things: people,equations, drink cans, books, cigarettes, test tubes, chairs, whatever floats your boat. Maybe.

 Maybe you're as stupid, and as touchy-feely as I am. Maybe you're not and you're actually studying for your exams. Neither doesn't matter. The point is, it is night. The stars are profound. Or whatever you want to think of it. Just... pretend, with me, for a moment...

"Evening."

Now, in preparation of the upcoming (self-) release of my first real poetry collection, 'First Adventures In Adolescent Heartbreak,' I've decided to post a few things from one of my notepad files called 'Night Sky.' Pretty much all of the stuff that follows will be included in the collection and contains both old and new work: some as recent as last month (and yesterday); some as old as last year. Hope you like it.

"Have you ever noticed the meaningful nothing that speaks so loudly to you in it's silence?

It's called the night sky."

***

AN INBOX.


I watched our brief memories shatter before my face,
and wondered

About our inherent chaos and implicit shapelessness;
crying now

Before me. I meet grey scars in your heart-broken eyes,
cataracts,

Singing a siren’s song that drags me to drown with you-
I hate you

For bringing me back…my head had just broken through your waters…
I miss breathing…

                                      ...so, so much.

***

THE ADOLESCENT POET.


As you go about your business,
      at the back of the school rugby field,
you search her body with your hands:
      you are looking for metaphors.

You instead find other, much nicer things.

***

ONE WEEK AT SCHOOL.


Its a Monday morning when
I'm still trying to make out with you.
It's about half a year earlier,
and we're both late for class.
But nobody's looking; nobody cares.

It's a Tuesday afternoon when
we're walking with other people.
It's a few months later,
and of no consequence any longer:
I've written everything I've needed to.

On a Wednesday evening your sister is now
asking me online why you cry into your pillow:
what were my intentions, what did I want.
I'm trying my best not to tell her,
that I really wish I knew.

It's a Thursday morning again
when I still tried to make out with you.
I see you walk but we're both sure I can't.
Soon enough, no one would have ever noticed,
that in these spaces we occupied anything at all.

Then it is Friday, late afternoon when
I call you to tell you I love you.
You don't say why you won't say it back-
I am suddenly too scared to ask.

So now I am writing
everything I've needed to.

***

BEDROOM.

I am slowly trudging towards midnight,

mind and heart, faded into

murky mix of tiredness and loneliness;

to coalesce, to coagulate

slowly

-the two of them.

A dead phone, I can't check

if you miss me again.

I am slowly trudging towards midnight,

pen and paper, molded into

clarity of mind and heart,

of tiredness and loneliness;

together but separate

-the two of them.

A dead phone, I can't tell you

that of course I miss you (again).

But I'm thriving yes, even

though the only thing I have 

around me- books, books, books.

Even if I struggle to close my eyes

for fear of my own thoughts

pummeling me- books, books, books.

And this library of ever greater, exaggerated,

dramatic heights,

of me being sad for no good reason:

Why should I care if it's just me?

Why should you care if it's just me?

-the two of them.

I still go on writing,

for lack of anything better to do,

turning to the back page,

just as I scribbled all that math

over my draft of my portrait of you.

Both made so hastily in pen

-the two of them.

And earlier when I desperately, desperately

clutched 

at my dead, dead phone

hoping for some semblance of someone...

maybe you, her, him, me, them, us, who, someone-

I looked at that silly teddy,

a cute little gift I bought you,

and finally breathed in and thought-

Things would be okay, things will be okay.

***

LAST NIGHT.


When I put
this drink can
against my mouth
and the liquid flows past my lips,

I am reminded
of a moment,
of a closeness,
I'm not sure I should still feel

but do.

***

Coming soon (he says again).