Monday, 12 September 2011

Poem: Exhausted

 Tiredness doesn't cover it.
I follow the trails of life that lay ahead of me
because what else can I do
I am too tired of arguing
and sick of trying with you.

You take me to a point of exhaustion
one that fills my everyday
I can't explain my feeling more than
through the word 'ok'

I see in your looks and in your eyes
I can tell you want me to break
but I am past the point of breaking
so instead i just lay...

Too tired to more too tired to think too tired to explain
explain the weight of tiredness on my heart while you lay unfazed
so instead I give in to the tiredness and just hope that you'll have the decency

to stay away.


Monday, 15 August 2011

Poem: Peter Pan Syndrome

I don't want to grow up.
I mean why would I want to?
You're telling me to become you...
Adults trapped under control
and failing to break the mould.


Why would I want to grow up?
I can't see why I would to accept
all the finanical problems and debt
that are thrown at you as a prison sentence
for you ever daring to educate your senses.

I can't be boxed and confined
because I refuse to be labelled and undermined
I don't want to face the truth and see
that everyone you trust is so ready to leave.

I know it's unreasonable but surely you know
that you preferred your own life 20 years ago.
When the best nights would never seem to end
and with liberty you would spend
with no understanding of the value of money
because after all your biggest worry was Winnie and his honey.

Sometimes I think it's life playing a twisted joke 
and taking one large dump on all it's folk.
But then I realise that as I grow
despite what I get to see and know
of all the ugly scenes and words 
there are places to which I am sown. 

Sown to an earthly melody of beats
that can be created with the sound of ones feet
that can transform the mountain into a sea of dreams
and thus making everything more beautiful than it seems. 

Sunday, 7 August 2011

Poem: Lies Are A Child's Best Friend

 I'm not a child anymore.

I know the truth about father christmas.
I know the truth about life.
I know the truth about people.

I know that nobody is perfect.
I know that people know that nobody is perfect
Yet, I know that we still strive to be perfect.

I'm not a child anymore.

So if you're going to lie,
at least do it right.
Don't try and get out of it now,
because I won't hear  you out.

I know that nobody's perfect.
That's why I knew when we first met
and you told me you were perfect
that you were a liar all along.

I thought I told you... I'm not a child anymore.

Saturday, 16 July 2011

Poem: I Need You

There aren't many times when I think I HAVE to write a poem or I NEED to write a poem but this was one of those times when I just HAD to get to a pen and some paper asap...


I need you here
to make me see so much
and to let me know
that this darkness will fade
and soon beauty will come
through the light in your eyes.

I need you to tell me
the words that you know
so well and you have
said so many times
which reassure me
from myself.

I need you by my side
so that I can remember
that even though I have seen
the evil in the world
and the hatred in the hearts
of so many
that there are
good
kind
and loving people
still alive.

But you see, I don't know
who you are?
or where you are?
or why you are hiding from me?
I just know that I need you right now
and you are no where to be seen.

Sunday, 10 July 2011

Poem: The Ghost of Music

Don't get me wrong, I do like lots of music that is currently made but this poem is just about the anger I feel about some of the other stuff that is also being made after I stumbled across a particular song/artist on TV *which shall remain nameless* and I just couldn't believe what I was watching and made me question what happened...



What happened?

What happened to the times when music made you think.
When lyrics questioned what was known.
When hip-hop was underground
and the pop wasn't in sync
with what made money
but instead spoke of what it meant
to be human.

You see,
it seems the more I listen to radio,
the less human I hear.
The voices that are thrusted at me,
don't seem to be clear.
I hear machines and automated voices,
telling me about their silly choices.
Making money from nonsense,
because they please the consensus.

There was a time:
when blues made you move,
Soul made you feel,
Pop made you smile,
Hip-hop made you hope.

Music helped you live. 

Now, music is a ghost
a ghost that floats into our minds
changing our expectations
and controlling what what we demand.
A spirit that can no longer heal us
so instead makes us stop feeling.
A ghost of what music once was
and a wash of what music now is.

Tuesday, 14 June 2011

Poem: Somewhere In London


Somewhere in London,
I walk the streets.
I keep my head down,
without an eye to meet.
I hear parts of stories,
and hear fragments of lives.
I watch people stumble,
whilst others cry.
Each to their own,
yet each to the whole.
Somewhere here in London.

Somewhere in London,
I peak open my eyes,
whilst figures rush by.
Nobody stumbles,
but everyone rushes.
Purpose in their step,
beauty around their head.
With lots around to admire,
but where there's smoke there's fire.
Somewhere here in London.

Somewhere in London,
I feel the lights dim,
and watch other out on a whim.
Feel the buzzing of the crowd,
and a deafening sound.
So many people to be listened to,
but so little patience given by you.
Somewhere here in London.

Somewhere in London,
a mother cries for her baby,
a car drives by lazily,
a kind heart acts bravely,
a child acts playfully,
a begger prays 'save me',
and others walk past blindly. 
Somewhere here in London.

Monday, 13 June 2011

Poem: Africa's Dream

I have a dream, that one day you'll see me.
Not look through me,
but truly see me.
Maybe then you will realise that I am
both strong and fragile.

I have a dream,
that one day you'll feel me.
Not carry on hurting me,
but truly feel my pain.
Maybe then you will stop thinking of
ways to destroy my beauty.

I have a dream,
that one day you'll hear me.
Not carry on muffling my cries,
but truly hear my words.

Maybe then you will realise,
that I am the original,
I am the true land of dreams,
that I am Africa.

Sunday, 12 June 2011

Poem: Pen To Paper

I was looking through some of my old notebooks which I used to write my poetry in yesterday. A lot I didn't really like but when I came across this I liked it because it explained the conditions in which I write most of my poems. Hope you like it!

Pen to paper in the dark,
Words refusing to settle straight on lines,
Barely aware of the letter being written,
The pen speaks for me.
Adresses my wishes...
and lives from the ink
a life longer than me.

Words are spoken to the ear,
and lost to the air.
Pen to paper lasts forever,
and strengths a language
that isn't lost by breath.

It can be received over and over
read with eyes
and taken in by the heart
No mis-understandings.

This explains why I write to you
rather than speaking to you
so you can see my words over and over.
It is not vaporised into clouds
but entrenched here
from my pen to paper.

Poem: If I Were To Die Today


If I were to die today,
I would like to be able to say:
that I did everything
and left nothing.

I would like to be able to know:
that every memory with you,
was perfect and true.

Maybe if I really tried with all of my heart,
then I could make a brand new start,
so that to make sure that- if I were to die today,
I would have said everything that I wanted to say.

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

Poem: Searching Still

I wrote this poem after speaking to a very close friend and hearing her insecurities. Then I realised her insecurities were mirrored in the majority of young girls- myself included. So I hope this poem gives girls out there some strength and patience...




Maybe he doesn't love me because I'm ugly,
Not special enough,
He doesn't look into my eyes...
So my eyes must be ugly.
Why can't he love me?
Why can't he want me,
Why am I alone?
Why has he left me?

I feel so broken.
I want to be made whole.
With him, I can be.
I wish he understood that.
I wish his eyes really saw me,
Not just looked at me.

Those are the constant pains of a girl,
A girl searching for love,
Wanting to be held,
Told she's beautiful,
Reminded that she's perfect...
But never finding the Love.
Those are the tales of a girl,
Who searched desperately for one four-lettered word,
But instead of being showered with Love,
She was ambushed with:
Pain.
Hurt.
Hate.

Oh girl, hear my words when I say,
Your beauty is too perfect for him,
A beauty that can shatter a boy's heart is dangerous,
You need a man who's heart is only shaken by your beauty.
You are more special than you can imagine,
There is only one you...
So you're an endangered animal and you need protecting.

But before anyone can love you...
You must love yourself.
Must hold yourself up.
Admire your own beauty.
Appreciate yourself.
Accept your flaws make you who you are.
Because nobody can hurt you once you know that.

Sunday, 1 May 2011

The Saddest Thing


There are many beautiful things in the world. It differs between different minds. Whether it's the look of joy on a baby's face when they glimpse a parent, the way sunshine transforms the derelict into the chic or whether it's the beauty of ink that flows from a pen transmitting thoughts onto paper.

Yet, at the same time there are some extremely depressing things in this world. Of course, what I say next is just a personal thing and has nothing on war, poverty or cancer; but it's a personal thing.

The saddest thing, for me, in this world is the feeling of remembering what once was.

Allow me to expand.

I am at my saddest when I am reflective. Perhaps that's the mood I am currently in. Nonetheless, when I reflect on those people in my life who once meant so much to me. How once my stories were repeatedly involving their name, my time was always filled with their prescence and my day was not complete without speaking to them.

Whether it's a love interest, a friend or even a sibling: there are memories of certain people in my life who once meant so much to me and centred in such a solid way in my life yet, somehow, now they are just a passing memory in my reflective moods.

There is such a pain in such a once beloved figure becoming a stranger.

A feeling of guilt always fills me. How? How could I have allowed someone, who meant so much to me at one point, fade so quickly from my thickle mind? After all, these are people that I've shared laughter with, cried tears over and even let them inspire me into becoming who I am today. Yet, here I am writing this blog about loss of people to man's greatest enemy: time.

Fair enough, we must all stand the test of time in order to seal a friendship. Additionally, sometimes, if a friendship or any relationship, cannot stand a test of time then maybe we should surrender to fate with that over used phrase: it just wasn't meant to be.

Except, if this is an inevitability then how do I now speak to people at school? Or anywhere for that fact? I know for certain that there are many faces who claim they'll keep in touch but it's just hot air. I can't stop being somebodys friend purely because I "think" they won't speak to me and I'm afraid they'll become a memory.

That is the truth though.

I am afraid.

I find this to be the saddest thing, the worst pain and the hardest part of life.

I am afraid of becoming too close to someone who may become part of my I-used-to-know-this-person-called...-stories.

Mais, c'est la vie.

Sure, there are pains in life. The loss of anyone in any form is a wound which may never truly heal. Yet, through these losses, we also gain. You have to lose in order to know what it feels like to win. There has to be bad in the world, in order to know what is good.

The pain that comes with loss will never become familiar to me- or at least I hope not. However, with each loss I hope there is a lesson there for me to learn. I then pray that the lessons mean that I won't ever have to lose any of the important gains I now make.

Why you should date a girl who reads:

“Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”

~Rosemarie Urquico

Friday, 29 April 2011

Poem: I dare you.


I know you will never look at me with those eyes,
But I dare you to please try.

I know you will never look at me and see perfection,
But I dare you to please try.

I know you may never be happy just being with me and only me,
But I dare you to please try.

I know it's easy to see through me,
I know I may never be THAT girl for you,
But I've dared me to at least try.

Poem: Let's imagine


Let's imagine the world isn't at war, 
Let's imagine that murder is unheard of, 
Let's imagine that people don't lie, 
Let's imagine that there is no such thing as poor, 
Let's imagine that we are all equal. 
We can imagine. 
We can wish. 
We can pretend. 

But when will we wake up and see the truth. 
Imagination eradicates the guilt 
Wishing helps us sleep at night 
And pretending blinds our hearts. 

Time for acting is now. 
Imagination isn't our saviour. 
We are the the ones with the power of language. 
We are the ones with the power of action. 


We are the ones with the power of change.

Thursday, 21 April 2011

Refugee Boy


Last night I finished Refugee Boy by Benjamin Zephaniah and I was left speechless. This book is so wonderfully written and has really open my eyes to the lives and torment that refugees face- not just when they are forced to leave their homes, but when they come here looking for asylum.

What it's about:
Life is not safe for Alem. His father is Ethiopian and his mother Eritrean - and with both countries at war, he is welcome in neither place. So his father does an astonishing thing, which at first appears callous, but is in fact the ultimate gift of love from a parent to their child...


Alem is an amazingly strong and brave character created by the brilliant Zephaniah. It provokes tears from you and really makes you question whether you should believe the newspapers claims about the refugees that are "flooding" the country. Here is someone who is being prosecuted for who he is and cannot claim a home in either the places that he comes from.
I seriously recommened this book, even for those who don't like reading. It is so touching and strong.

Benjamin Zephaniah


At the beginning of the book the Author, Benjamin Zephaniah - who is also one of my favourite poets/writers - has left a note to the readers:
It’s a hard life being labelled ‘political’. It seems that because I’m constantly ranting about the ills of the world I’m expected to have all the answers, but I don’t, and I’ve never claimed to, besides I’m not a politician. What interests me is people. When I hear politicians saying that we are being ‘flooded’ by refugees, I always remind myself that each ‘refugee’ is a person, a person who for some reason has left everything they know and love to find safety in a strange, and sometimes hostile country. 
I wrote ‘Refugee Boy’ because I realised that every day I was meeting refugees, and each one of them had a unique, and usually terrifying story to tell. I have seen refugee camps in Gaza, Montenegro and other places around the world but when I met Million and Dereje Hailemariam, two teenagers who were being denied asylum in Britain, I knew that I had to write a story that would illustrate the suffering and the struggles that many asylum seekers have to endure. Million and Dereje’s parents feared for the lives of their boys, they did not want them to grow up in an environment where they would witness war on a daily basis.

I have also met children whose parents were executed in front of them, or who themselves had been kidnapped and tortured. For ‘Refugee Boy’ I borrowed from the many stories that I have heard and created a story that I believe many refugees would recognise. I would like to know that anyone who reads the book would think before they accuse refugees of looking for a free ride. 
We all want to live in peace, we all want the best for our families. The Celts, the Angles, the Saxons, the Jamaicans are all refugees of one sort or another. What kind of a refugee are you? And what are you scared of? 

I leave you with a quote from the book:  "You are a product of two countries, Ethiopia and Eritrea, and we love them both equally but they are pulling themselves and each other apart."