Second Love.

(Yes. I haven't posted for a while for various reasons but as all teenagers do I've found something else to fuss about, well, someone else but that's not the point. I'm writing and that's more important than anything. In any case things aren't so bad, I'm pretty content and happy... But before I post my poem maybe I can copy-paste something that a friend of mine posted on Facebook quite a while back and hope she doesn't mind...it really just describes how I feel perfectly: 

"life is wierd ....there was a milkey way or somethin tonight ...i hate school ..nd I love skating ...nd I wish da devil burns for once in he's dam life  hahahaha I dono y I posted this xx 


#Bored" 

Now that's out of the way I'd like to post something I've written during this new period of calm contentedness that I'm experiencing, before anything else happens to me both inside and outside the confines of my blog (there's a lot of shit I haven't typed about here but I can only do so much...). Hope you like it as much as I like feeling this way. )

SECOND LOVE.

Hand-holding as the stars sing,
I think I’m getting older.

I don’t believe that’s the roar of God out there,
it’s probably just the wind or crickets, who don’t
burn so bright and distant; screaming in the dark.
Sound doesn’t travel through vacuums anyway so
it’s funny

that I can still hear you
whispering through my phone.

Didn’t that conversation happen a week ago?

You’re under-cover, in your bed-sheets,
hiding from your parents while mine just watch TV.
Again this is all just memory,
where sounds cannot reach us

but I’m sure you can still hear me
as I tell you that yes,
I’ve finally written words for you, words for me.

What will happen tomorrow?

My Bed Past Midnight; You Are Asleep.

(Today, was my first day of school after all this silly, stupid shit happened (Logging Off Twitter; Trigonometry; Him, Looking At Her;  Because I'm Smarter;  Another Broken-Hearted Blog Post; Another Broken-Hearted Blog Post? (note the order; it's rather interesting!)) It was a good day, I smiled and laughed and thought and thought and thought and thought and...well, I need something to post since it's been way to long, and looking through my poetry archives, I find the poem I was most proud from not too long ago. Since the aforementioned shit I've written much, much better pieces, but a bit of nostalgia doesn't hurt, when things were much happier and sweeter and it was fun being in love. Oh well, that's life...you get a hole punched through your chest, and you grab the filler, knowing that it will all happen again... But it's the moments like what has been captured below, that will always make me believe, no matter how retarded and idealistic... ag! just read the damn poem.) 

MY BED PAST MIDNIGHT;

YOU ARE ASLEEP.

The presence of you,
next to me on my bed,
is gentle and existing;
ethereal as you are.

And,
soft as you are,
it is nothing deep,
nothing carnal.

And,
cold as we are,
in needing warmth:
we cuddle,

with
hair quietly tangling
in the background
of our bodies;

with
blood warmly murmuring
in the background
of our hearts;

with
our tired eyes talking,
when we’re silent;
saying things
they weren't supposed to say.

I know
that we’re online
in the pixels, of my screen,
and type to tell you
that I wish you were here;

that my bed is empty, despite me,
it always was;
that you'll only see this message
when you wake up…


But


The presence of you,
next to me on my bed,
is gentle and existing;
ethereal as it is.

T.W.T Mulalu

...

Coming soon.

The Ballad of the Story Teller

THE BALLAD OF THE STORY TELLER

(A throwback to my Form One Days...one my better pieces.)

I am the story teller

I make living through fiction

I lay bread on the table-

Through colourless, paintless art

My life lies in my pen

My existence seeps into paper

Flows from ink

Imprinted on paper

It is me

My existence lays upon brilliant white sheets

I flutter, the wind scattering

My life like dust

I fall victim to the rain

The tiny droplets of water from the clouds,

Embed themselves upon my white surface

I tear

The more that is written- the more that is lost

Ink flows unto me, it stains, it blackens

The ink has now touched me, my gleaming white surface

I lose myself in words that are being written

The ink touches my soul, I am no longer pure

The ink becomes my very lifeblood

I now belong to the stories

The stories that came from the writing of my very hand.

I am my own prisoner

The stories have trapped me

They torture me.

They plague me.

I have loved, existed and faded.

I have written.

Now I flutter and fall victim to the rain

Let me be passed on, for I have become what I sought to be

I am the story teller