why i write

everything, shallow and deep...I'm just everything i am all the time....
and its noticeable. inconsistently consistent... unpredictably predictable!

its a possession...i don't have a choice...gift and curse!

its like u know how everyone has 5 senses, how some people say can talk to angels and God, how magicians do, how fortune tellers do.... how animals sense things...i have this voice, my soul has a voice... i don't sit and make shit rhyme, or pre meditate, its always there, talks all the time, even now, people say i have a way with words its just that i know alot of words and like explaining fully what i wanna say...soul to soul, that's y i like people receiving my writes the way they feel them. what u feel is what i mean...
it registers everything all the time, we are friends and enemies... doesn't fancy my mind too much...lol! or my ex-housemate!(OK that was just for thrills)
true always...and can knock me down on my hands and knees clutching on a pencil, writing on a napkin...its so deep that wen it has to write it has to write...I've written so many pieces, my hand numb from being slower than it speaks, where i break down and cry after documentation!
yo...i write every where, anything!
I've gone months before without writing, OMG i thought i was gonna die, i felt dead, my soul was hurting, i was numb...was not myself or my i had written so much of wat i was feeling, that i wasn't feeling...and i always see it go, n come back...she plays tricks on me...
the more i listen n accept the more i hear, the louder she gets, used to think it was just me...nah! she loves explaining...her 1st and Passion is written word, its a choice, for people willing and ready to accept and receive...we get loud though sometimes....
hahahaha! sorry, we get carried away! but this is why i write!
sealed in the package wen i was delivered!!

Gino Obuseng

my heartbeat knows me

my heart whispered something to me
it changed its pace, not fast, not slow
concentrated, true, a sense of completion.
and my breathing the cradle it rocks on.
the promise in the words that were said.
i feel it beating in every cell in every part of my body.
its knowing...

did you know you stop me?
i decided for you, when i forget my knowledge of knowing and slip into an unlit corner, in hopes of salvage, when it should be for me to receive a gift of remembrance.

its knowing, that these many rules don't have to be followed wen you dream things to life.


Gino Obuseng

Inebriated

felt like gentle rain
feel it from the bottom of me
welcomed him
possess another person
storm rose inside that made me cringe.
we heave and when you leave there could be just whispers.

attacking the core of my inner being corroding my thoughts.
its the smile and look in your eye.
that calls up the silence of the moon
to whisper at your lips brushing up
against mine, entangled your tongue in this prolonged hope i feel right to the bottom of me.
this room, the bricks and wood remember the thrill of intoxication.

I've began to understand,
its an exquisite beat as we race against our heart beats, with no sense of direction,
i don't know left from right but my legs spread to welcome you.
the depth, the colours in my head changing this possession i want forever.

Gino Obuseng

pure insanity!

I stand, stand in this web of absolution

Tainted, unsteady. In an entanglement of a variety of lanes

Taken by those before me, those with me, those I let past.

Right where it began from.

I think I tasted it coming in the confusion of the steady wake in the darkness, from darkness.

Head heavy, like that airport 11years ago, that smell, that nausea, that song in that memory.

I wait on time past, present and beyond

That I was never introduced. That has not been greeted.

Its foundation beyond me.

I stretch out my hand.

I’m here, I feel it now, I’m sure I did before,

But it hits me, stops me dead in my tracks.

I sit, always alone, wanting to be alone

Feeling as if this picture of Starbucks ahead of me is my screen,

Adjusting the volume to my earphones.

I sit, always alone, smiling at the over-friendly security guard and ignoring the curious stare of a common African face.

My finger is delegated to this pause button when I take a breath, exhaling an idea, quick, I try to breathe in this inspiration I see is a foggy mist in front of my nose.

I am this mosquito

On my legs I remember scratching her before, the exact same spots.

Like realizing this over and over again, being here with the same mind, heart…but WAIT –

The knowledge is deeper, the craving stronger.

That drug, that t-shirt, that double-take in that dream.

I know as before that there really is no changing this. World’s optical illusion of these two bars I sit in the middle of, no changing the sky’s color of the lights dimness.

I really know there is no strength in any spectacles to make this awareness visible.

I stop, she saw it, sees it, that short, dark haired little girl, in her father’s arms, looking in the same direction as he.

Only she sees it.

My friends torture of unfairness to her left and her right. Her indecisiveness of weight transformation of the 2.

It marvels her, but I understand, it’s not fear,

As I made this right leg of mine,

There were 2 sets I only carried one.

Surprise? NO!

The girl opposite me, it nags her, contribution.

She should have changed her soul; her eyes constantly stare out the window, catching the words that fly around her as they match her fantasies.

She made up her mind.

This woman, this man, this child. He pushes the pram.

She gladly rides, knowing her new toys and candy dreams will be fulfilled.

She trots proudly behind. And as she stands, mimicking her pre-natal stance, fatigue.

But I noticed him first. The cap, the polo ‘Tee’, the pants, the shoes, glasses and moustache. But when I look, he adds-on, free of charge.

Is it really old-school or for old-timers? That phone in a pouch by his belt?

He evokes a picture of a man, not my blood, not a stand in or replacement, but titled but not it, a childless man, referenced in archives as my father.

That he was.

But he still smokes, he still cares. Not knowing what is in his heart and mind. But I see him; his face in this picture has not been blacked out by that angry marker.

I have often compared my father to my dad,

Grateful that what the other offered and took was spent, the other just died down.

Which way do u look at this grass?

I notice shit now, which disturbs my unawareness of detail being aware.

I’m clumsy now.

I talk, I explain, I raise my free hand in response to that classroom question, my hand painting, my mind reeling, I forgot, I’m a robot, this was and is my heart’s joy.

This now feeling like I’m grasping to this rope in a form of art, graphic design thread for life. It is my love.

These rights we award as rewards, excuses for ‘easing one’s mind’, ‘taking a breather’ after a 2500 word essay. Which deserves what?

That pillow, your heavy head, the bottom of that toilet bowl, the endless. Quit, the phone calls, invitations.

Who deserves what?

That inner peace we seek, the words, your words my dear friend of understanding, come and go, near then far, up come down.

I still sit here alone, always alone. Our bubbles slightly merging but to the surface ‘pop!’

I take a deep breath my lungs fills, chasing ideas, a light bulb, inspiration. I absorb my day, mental images of reflections off these store windows, rear-view mirrors and glasses of unfamiliar glances.

This bus won’t move fast enough, my thumb throbs…my phone rings!

You heard me, you listened but you as soon as forgot what you know live within. This is nothing new.

My body rhythms to your words, liquefied into pure, concentrated feeling, plugs in my ears, you talk the language of my soul, and my mind got scared, hid, stop chasing. Pack that shit up in a box, lay it in front of me and let me trip and trip all over it!

Listen to whom…what? Who observes who?

My voice, my mind, my heart and my soul. This is not practiced; today I listen to the conversation of my voice to my fingers to this pen on that page.

Never awake at the same time, my mind has blacked out I can feel my heartbeat, my soul is inspired, not satisfied, high and dry, uncalled, lacking!

Always alone,

My eyes shutting, my mouth whispers a jingle,

Irritating surely but the response is in unison

Like they are used to it, patterned.

Sleep, I know you. Do you ever call first? Do you have a toll-free number? Insurance…money back?

I’m going to ask you…but my opportunist being wants to know if you and your friends can be summoned, leant, conjured? Do u accept bribes? As I know you will not let me tease? I put my head on the pillow…assuming the position,

Yes come, send me somewhere far where my only responsibility on a contract is me.

Gino Obuseng