He said he would
But he was up to no good
He'd become adept at lying
And you'd become adept at believing
You sat by the corner and cried
Tears were a thing you couldn't hide
He was once that perfect soul
A soul that made you whole
And the lies broke you to pieces
The promises came yet he never ceases
He become distant and aloof
And unreliable like a leaking roof
The lies became him,
They become his constant theme
The lies became his only truth
He is silent like a derelict phone booth
He steps into the local
A little inebriated, therefore a little animated
He sees his 'friends'
Friends by the virtue that they commune together
to have fun destroying their livers with cheap liquor
'It's peaceful here,' he says
His wife sells groceries across the road
And there are three teenagers in the house
running wilder than the wildebeests in the Mara
He gulps his vodka, wipes his mouth and scans the area
and declares that he has three teenagers
He says he cannot buy a single bread
because they think it is the biggest joke
after democracy in the African continent
He whines about his job,
his wife, the government, the cosmos, aliens
then leaves for his house -
a place he can't stand a second of sobriety
Because of the marauding teens
By God, it made me think
please do not give me teenagers
I want to drink for other reasons
than teenagers - insatiable teenagers
who have since ceased finding anything humorous
in the old bones that made them who they are
She had an intimidatingly rough face
a face that would 'rough someone up' -
but she was cool, and humble like your grandma
when she is in a jolly mood
But she smoked cigar after cigar
Often tilting her head at a slight angle
as she puffed out, as though she is near
a ground-breaking thought
a philosophical thought that can change mankind
like the nothingness of our existence
But all she ever does is puff away
staring into a blank distance
an unreachable canvass of hers where she draws
beautiful yet obscure dreams of our meaningless existence
She sips her beer, too,
in between puffs too
she is at peace with her demons
You can tell that - everybody can tell that
And she does not care about what you think
she cares about her cigar, and her beer
and the things that make her seek refuge
in her blank, unreachable canvas of hers
a canvas that rejects the notion of carcinogens
she'll probably tell you that nobody knows what causes cancer
she is at peace,
she is peace with her cigar
Really,
What is happiness?
Happiness is a made up word
So that sick and deranged people
can sell drugs to others
happiness is unattainable
happiness is the biggest fallacy
happiness is gaping grave
ever ready to swallow up its next victim
happiness can happen on a whim
it can happen on a wheel
happiness is not a destination
neither is it a journey
happiness was not meant to exist
it is a made up word
so that we can keep buying things we don’t need
sunsets
beaches
a thousand songs
songs that made flowers bloom on our feet
a million memories
shredded to the tiniest bits
so much that I do not know
if I miss you
shadows
long walks
a thousands laughs
that made time seem to stand still
feel with a gaping hole
inside a heart that forgot how to love you
regrets
a bucket of chilled regrets
that calm my sick heart, sometimes
a bucket of chilled regrets
that I sometimes drink with vodka
I shall not forget
For the memory of you cannot be
drowned
for you are the storm itself
the hurricane
deserts,
and rainforests
plenty and scarcity
you were all the extremes
the extremes that I fervently loved
I will miss you on some days
Days I will wonder what you are up to
Some days drag its feet like a marauding
army of sloths
Some days the emptiness is as palpable
as voids cane feel
some days taste like a cocktail of frustration
and bad decisions
some days suck energy as though they were high
power suction machines
that drain blood out its victims – those sadistic days
and then those days often appear normal
the sun is as punctual as usual
even when one does not want it to rise
it has the same potential as good days
and they sneak upon you liked skilled predators
and rob of the will to live and the will to even survive
and from that point onwards,
everything is a downward spiral
until you hit rock bottom
those days
they say such days only exist in the head
they don’t say it exists in the calendar as well
they don’t say some days are better off inexistent
some days are better of unlived
like the day you were born
I lay awake at night
and listen to the clinging thoughts
clang! clang!
hammers pounding away
same intensity as yester year
and years before that
and the years after
cling! clang!
thoughts pounding away
chipping away nothing
just competing with the slow clock
tik tok!
The sickening slow ebb of time
nauseates
