A moment of silence for the death of childhood.

My despondent face looks into a camera. I ask why I have to be here. I wonder why I idolised adulthood in my mind. If only, if only, if only I was a grown-up. Now I’m here. It’s bleak. The hardest part of adulthood is the whole part. The mixed messages, constant desire to prove oneself, assimilating into a home place – a community. I ask why I have to be here. Where everything isn’t as it seems. Where everyone says what they do not mean. Why did I have to be put here. The biggest depressant of all time, the abyss of adulthood. The growth spurt from constant known to constant unknown. Who can prepare anyone for a time like this? I ask why I have to be here. My despondent face is the total explanation of my views of adulthood. There are structures in place in the forms of culture, tradition and ‘how it should be’. But who decides those and why were they placed before me. I had no say to exist, yet I must, my obligation is to keep going. Out of fear of nothingness. When I discovered what death meant. Oh wow, why was I born. Life is beautiful I lied up until eighteen. Afterwards the mediocrity of a family, house and work became too much to me. What do I exist as beyond the outside structures set up for me and why has the existence been hidden from me. I can’t figure out why I have a purpose pre-destined by the world for me. When did going from child to adult become so crippling to self-esteem, why were my mothers words not even enough to save me. I am listless in this place of unseen.

I’m born out of a womb that is not mine. I inhabit a body that was carved by microscopic fragments of intangible, malleable desire. I am art created by authors who have signed off on me with their signatures and their ideas and their thoughts, yet somehow I’m supposed to me. Does my body even belong to me? What a gift if I am constantly having it taken from me. Either pain, pleasure, hate, criminality, desire, perversion, spirits, conversions, something, oh something constantly wants to inhabit me. Am I so special or am I so functional? Who or what am I if I don’t even know who created me? I am told through others, feelings, passages, scriptures that all are so foreign to me. I inhabit a land that is totally alien to me. Yet I’m supposed to appease others by the gesture and tonality of my physicality. I did not choose the box I got stuck in. I maintain it as well as I can. I don’t even know how long it will last. Is this is a horror or a fantasy? I have this main role yet things appear to happen to me.

I am always faced with the same question. Twenty-three years old strong and the satisfaction of success feels so dry to my lips. I tried to be everything that society and elders and people in authority tell me to be. I give my own existence up to exist for people who won’t die with me. Is this biggest ballad of fallacy? I am not simple minded enough to just sit down and shut-up. I am not simple minded enough to keep quiet – keep those lips shut. I am an animal. I am conditioned before I even consider my conditions and yet I’m supposed to manage this with proficiency. What is the systemic problem that keeps tackling me, throwing me into the ground into dirt mixed with oil and gooey lust, leering and jeering from men and women alike, rubbing the soil all of the my body without me batting an eye. I see traps everywhere; I see dark spies.

What is the point. I cry up to the sky. If I live to breath and then that breath is taken from me. If I have a voice and it’s ripped from within me. If my soul is existing yet truly it’s trapped in this body I was given. Where is my peace? Surely. Everyone has a fucking opinion. Everyone is a fucking evil minion. Pushing their constructs onto my pale brown skin. ‘You are’… well, how could you, fellow human, know who I am? How could to take the hole of me and give it to me in a piece of your hand? How can you tell me my future with your own malicious air and the expect to saunter away and not care. I hate these figures of lies wrapped in white skin, I hate these men who test and test and try to get me to give in, you take parts of a whole and then replace them at whim, what the fuck – even women do the same. Who do I owe but the essence that brought me from dust and sin. Who do I owe but science created by a unfathomable thing, and who has the right to tell me where I start and where I begin?

When I was born, power was within. All the world seems to show me, as adult, is that it counts for nothing unless I prove it physically. What a fucking ridiculous story to be living in.

Poem 6.

Oh you victim,

‘You pushed me away!’

Oh you poor victim –

what did the world owe you?


Because this world won’t care until death,

and who recognises we’re all just people, nothing more and nothing less.

Wrapped up in the emotional debts of old karmic cycles,

what did I owe you?

And if it all amount to nothing, just the black abyss of a subpar existence, revolving around your claim to want me, to care for me, to see me somehow.

This isn’t a love poem, who cares for the old scaring love,

this is a poem for when you give for your family –

and they abandon you.



And then you wonder.

Who really wanted to know.

And who really cared.

When friends become foes,

and the world scoffs when you scream its not fair.

And who wanted to take their own life,

to guarantee the survival of mine.

And who really cared about the struggle,

who really cared about the loss,

who really cared about the brutal, testing cost.

And who just wants one thing,

and who wants everything.

And who will give something,

in return of nothing.

And who judges you day and night,

and who puts you in that ruthless box.

And who sits back in pain,

when you soul begins to rot.

And who kept their word,

and who broke you down.

And who is still around –

who is still around?

Poem 3.


Why does the sunshine

remind me

your eyes                                          your soul

I sigh                                                  you

I smile                                               shine

Poem 1.

In the heat of summer

you read me poems

sweat between creases

capillaries expanding

and palms wiping foreheads –

you read me poems

I lay against your sound

tonation floats up and down

keep reading until




A short notice.

My eyes ran across your cheeks

And then sprinted to your lips

Round your beard and up to your nose,

Rolling onto the curves your brows

A moments’ pause at this point –

Knowing I’d be sweetly looking into your eyes.

Excited and zealous and gleeful like a kid

Chasing along the skin to arrive at my favourite part,

Here, into those eyes, I dive, heart pounding and complete submission, to never come up from submerging.