She stood absolutely still, trying to wean off this thought that had come not less than a thousand times in her head. The question she really didn’t believe but snuck up on her as this hunger did, she closed the fridge with a long sigh. The cold breeze reminding her slightly of places she missed and places she was grateful to be away from as she closed her eyes and let it sweep over her face.
She wonders a lot about the choices she made in men, in loves, great loves and lust. Was it all not meant for her? Was she not good enough? Thin enough? She thought and believed of her beauty, in and out. She had had motivators in her life that had molded her into a proud young woman, but the hard work she did herself, standing firm for what she believed in, trusting and loving those close to her. Or maybe she was too good??
She smiled and went on with her thoughts trying to retrace what had led her to this bitter point, had her shouting propaganda at folks’ cars as they honked jubilantly away in convoys. She’s mad. Not at the world but at herself, at her choices and at her surroundings for daring to give her such options in the first place. But she knows she’ll get over it soon, she’ll take a drag of that green and make it what it should be, when it hits her and try to make it last as she fights the urge to scream -sometimes to cry.
Love isn’t all she craves, though they come long, hard and makes her body shudder. She has dreams, dreams that reach beyond what she can see, dreams that capsize her mind, dreams she would die for. Dreams no one knows. Dreams that make her smile, warm and jolly. Dreams that sadden her, that beat her up and brings her down with feelings of futility. Seems all she wants does. So she smokes, she grasps on the little of inspiration as it comes and holds on for dear life, she smokes more and waits for it again. It tires her.
Love. As she craves it is of beauty, of truth and purity. It has never been of anything else as long as she remembers but now more defined; she knows what she wants and knows what she doesn’t. But love and she have never been on same sides. Her defense is vigilant, but this is a reflex of showing heart break. She dares not do that, worse than the tears, she must not show emotion where she can’t later take back or play off with a little bit of coyness. Truly. It takes her back to many times she was told -just like she had many times been told how she looked so unapproachable, and no idea why… -that she was perceived as a person who would "go" with the flow, and no idea WHY!
She had made it so like she had made many things in her life exactly the way they were.
Gino Obuseng
Thursday, June 25, 2009
untitled
I wish I could see her,
Tell her is not her fault.
That she is not a failure.
That she unlike most of us was given that opportunity
To conceal her doubt.
But she wasn’t looking!
She didn’t pay attention to what she woke up screaming about,
When the baby woke up wailing.
A woman’s hands are not to serve man,
And make best, they are to look graceful, be helpful,
Turn the world and carry the future.
But it’s sad to say the world’s liberated women aren’t liberated at all,
We talk about it too much.
We have the same speech.
We are divided into 2… the takers and the tooken.
When is it better to love a man?
When he’s in success, buys, brings and flies high.
NO! When he’s down on his knees, has nothing
And the world has whipped him so.
When you measure him, measure him right,
But when you do,
Don’t take in account the hills and valleys he’s come through.
My finger is delegated to this pause button,
When I take a breathe, exhaling an idea
Quick, I try to breathe in this inspiration
I see as a foggy mist in front of my nose.
Gino Obuseng
Tell her is not her fault.
That she is not a failure.
That she unlike most of us was given that opportunity
To conceal her doubt.
But she wasn’t looking!
She didn’t pay attention to what she woke up screaming about,
When the baby woke up wailing.
A woman’s hands are not to serve man,
And make best, they are to look graceful, be helpful,
Turn the world and carry the future.
But it’s sad to say the world’s liberated women aren’t liberated at all,
We talk about it too much.
We have the same speech.
We are divided into 2… the takers and the tooken.
When is it better to love a man?
When he’s in success, buys, brings and flies high.
NO! When he’s down on his knees, has nothing
And the world has whipped him so.
When you measure him, measure him right,
But when you do,
Don’t take in account the hills and valleys he’s come through.
My finger is delegated to this pause button,
When I take a breathe, exhaling an idea
Quick, I try to breathe in this inspiration
I see as a foggy mist in front of my nose.
Gino Obuseng
depth
Where did the depth go?
Disappeared.
With the wind
Alone, sitting under the street light of the world.
Everyone is trying to get over, grasp a piece of a divine being.
I crave it everywhere, through this pen, my shaking hands.
My breathe cutting short.
My absolute nothingness on these blank pages,
I crave it under my skin, vibrating my ribs in their cages.
I crave it in my stomach, butterflies.
Grasping, reaching, and trying to find meaning in a man’s many lies.
Even in these steps that I take heaving in my knees
Looking straight ahead trying by all means to ignore the pleas.
I crave it deep, this depth, deep. I swear I think sometimes I crave it intangible between my legs.
Swallowing all my strength hanging me up helpless like pegs.
Where did the depth go?
Seems to be so many of the same sets of minds floating around.
I feel it. Alone standing under the street light of the earth,
Watching them chase materials and chase away.
Alone chasing dreams and life itself.
Over inspired breathing in pure poetry and exhaling nothing…
They get nothing.
I am a volcano, a giant
Surrounded by ants who don’t understand what I’m talking about.
The depth is around me, about me, even in the retail clothes I wear.
All the time.
Forgive me if I do act like I have diamonds at the top of my legs.
Liberated indeed I sit and think of what and how the new world has brought, I am thankful of the gift of word I have robbed from the world.
But I crave on, hang on… someone is out there, I have felt it, this depth
Before, I wouldn’t crave it so… and if it is not the same then I crave
more.
I can almost taste it with the tip of my tongue. Harder.
Deeper!
Where did all the deep people go?
Gino Obuseng
Disappeared.
With the wind
Alone, sitting under the street light of the world.
Everyone is trying to get over, grasp a piece of a divine being.
I crave it everywhere, through this pen, my shaking hands.
My breathe cutting short.
My absolute nothingness on these blank pages,
I crave it under my skin, vibrating my ribs in their cages.
I crave it in my stomach, butterflies.
Grasping, reaching, and trying to find meaning in a man’s many lies.
Even in these steps that I take heaving in my knees
Looking straight ahead trying by all means to ignore the pleas.
I crave it deep, this depth, deep. I swear I think sometimes I crave it intangible between my legs.
Swallowing all my strength hanging me up helpless like pegs.
Where did the depth go?
Seems to be so many of the same sets of minds floating around.
I feel it. Alone standing under the street light of the earth,
Watching them chase materials and chase away.
Alone chasing dreams and life itself.
Over inspired breathing in pure poetry and exhaling nothing…
They get nothing.
I am a volcano, a giant
Surrounded by ants who don’t understand what I’m talking about.
The depth is around me, about me, even in the retail clothes I wear.
All the time.
Forgive me if I do act like I have diamonds at the top of my legs.
Liberated indeed I sit and think of what and how the new world has brought, I am thankful of the gift of word I have robbed from the world.
But I crave on, hang on… someone is out there, I have felt it, this depth
Before, I wouldn’t crave it so… and if it is not the same then I crave
more.
I can almost taste it with the tip of my tongue. Harder.
Deeper!
Where did all the deep people go?
Gino Obuseng
impressive, dear friend
The glitter, the records
The afros, the platforms, that we wore,
Performances, mic in hand, roars
Melody, in harmony, steps we took, stumbled upon
And tumbled down, we walked
My friend, its impressive how far we have come.
My inspiration is everywhere tangible or not
Vague or bold, moldable and brief,
Waters my eyes, almost uncomfortable. Silence.
The years have passed, we have grown
Dear friend, the impression I get of the world now has slightly shifted, the impression I see in your eyes, not pain, torture, but the toll in weight of the 10 or so sets of 24hours in the 365 days that have to pass with us, around us, at us and without some of us.
Oh my friend, I used to pray for miracles,
Used to pray to know how to pray,
Now I pray for consistence
For now, for change in same.
I pray for renewed faith, strength.
And if my prayers are exhausted, I’ll close my eyes, pray and wait for hope.
I will myself to cold, to feel no more
Willing t take a lose of all this capability of feeling so my heart wont have to take all its lost that I’ve grown to wear.
I ask you "friend", is it really temporary to you?
I appoint the people who hold positions in my life, near or far, distant or close.
I see you, closer than most, never where your soul wears your heart.
Maybe sometimes the problem is I just ‘see’ what you so feel, when I wish I were you juggling them, hand 2 hand, but all that for what?
If I don’t see you moved, entertained?
Coz you have your heart waiting for you at home.
All this for what? Not knowing the father of your baby…
That toes curling closeness for what?
That HI-VIRUS,
That yearning, pull to yourself in just this way,
The only way he can and wants to be with you.
Join them.
It is how I wanted it. How I took it and gave it.
Exactly the way my knees shook with need from the back.
My dear friend, maybe it’s our laughter that curse – of findings that confuse us these days or is it just me? Are we all meant to be friends?
As a friend I shouldn’t have laid up in your bed,
Shouldn’t have crossed that line or closed my eyes.As a friend I should tell you to calm down, treat your man with respect and your body with dignity.
As a friend I shouldn’t have lied to you, whispered behind your back and looked at your offspring with pity.
As a friend in need maybe we shouldnt have been friends, pretended, used so much energy in formalities. Or made up the rules as we went, triggered in bar brawls.
Could a friend have really done that to you?
Left you, tricked you, raped you and stole fro you?
Its impressive, dear friend how I call you a friend yet you stand undefined like no other, but dare I say you are the only one.
There are those, plenty, undefined even.
Different limits and boundaries, I call friends.
Dearest friends, impress me, for the immense trust I once gave to you has dissolved, gone. Like it was dreamt up.
I try to find it sometimes when we reminisce, feelings of nostalgia around us.
But that is all lost now. Distant.
Like those lost, stuck as memories in my soul forever.
Even those I can’t believe are gone.
Those I said goodbye to, those coffins, the body I came to know, that presented itself under the same roof, next door, you lay battered, bruised, broken on the side of the road.
Faith in the choice of friends, strength and belief you will always be ok, fine. Even as you lay now under, sleeping until the end of time. Just memory.
My friend, it matters to me not, the money you make, you don’t make. The jobs you lost and passed.
I care not for your procrastinations or awful habits life has acquired you. The insecurities, shadiness, lack of choices, clicking your high heels to manufactured options. We are exact opposites, 2 sides of the same coin, and 2 shades of the same color black.
They have the same lines, throw the same paper.
But you can ride shot gun, while I walk.
Rather do, and frequent fairy land on the occasion trip and buzz than fuss over that tainted lump of flesh hanging between their legs, brought in deception, screaming to penetrate my clarity.
My dear friend, I am tired, losing grip sometimes. The thoughts incoherent in my head. Your voice trails on, stuck as a record in the back of my mind,
But this is all for my benefit.
All for my world, for my eyes, for my impression.
A selfish act. Contagious to those impressive and dear friends.
IT’S NOT GOING AWAY!
In harmony, my friend, how far we’ve come.
Yours always, awakened. Impressed.
Your dear friend.
Gino Obuseng
The afros, the platforms, that we wore,
Performances, mic in hand, roars
Melody, in harmony, steps we took, stumbled upon
And tumbled down, we walked
My friend, its impressive how far we have come.
My inspiration is everywhere tangible or not
Vague or bold, moldable and brief,
Waters my eyes, almost uncomfortable. Silence.
The years have passed, we have grown
Dear friend, the impression I get of the world now has slightly shifted, the impression I see in your eyes, not pain, torture, but the toll in weight of the 10 or so sets of 24hours in the 365 days that have to pass with us, around us, at us and without some of us.
Oh my friend, I used to pray for miracles,
Used to pray to know how to pray,
Now I pray for consistence
For now, for change in same.
I pray for renewed faith, strength.
And if my prayers are exhausted, I’ll close my eyes, pray and wait for hope.
I will myself to cold, to feel no more
Willing t take a lose of all this capability of feeling so my heart wont have to take all its lost that I’ve grown to wear.
I ask you "friend", is it really temporary to you?
I appoint the people who hold positions in my life, near or far, distant or close.
I see you, closer than most, never where your soul wears your heart.
Maybe sometimes the problem is I just ‘see’ what you so feel, when I wish I were you juggling them, hand 2 hand, but all that for what?
If I don’t see you moved, entertained?
Coz you have your heart waiting for you at home.
All this for what? Not knowing the father of your baby…
That toes curling closeness for what?
That HI-VIRUS,
That yearning, pull to yourself in just this way,
The only way he can and wants to be with you.
Join them.
It is how I wanted it. How I took it and gave it.
Exactly the way my knees shook with need from the back.
My dear friend, maybe it’s our laughter that curse – of findings that confuse us these days or is it just me? Are we all meant to be friends?
As a friend I shouldn’t have laid up in your bed,
Shouldn’t have crossed that line or closed my eyes.As a friend I should tell you to calm down, treat your man with respect and your body with dignity.
As a friend I shouldn’t have lied to you, whispered behind your back and looked at your offspring with pity.
As a friend in need maybe we shouldnt have been friends, pretended, used so much energy in formalities. Or made up the rules as we went, triggered in bar brawls.
Could a friend have really done that to you?
Left you, tricked you, raped you and stole fro you?
Its impressive, dear friend how I call you a friend yet you stand undefined like no other, but dare I say you are the only one.
There are those, plenty, undefined even.
Different limits and boundaries, I call friends.
Dearest friends, impress me, for the immense trust I once gave to you has dissolved, gone. Like it was dreamt up.
I try to find it sometimes when we reminisce, feelings of nostalgia around us.
But that is all lost now. Distant.
Like those lost, stuck as memories in my soul forever.
Even those I can’t believe are gone.
Those I said goodbye to, those coffins, the body I came to know, that presented itself under the same roof, next door, you lay battered, bruised, broken on the side of the road.
Faith in the choice of friends, strength and belief you will always be ok, fine. Even as you lay now under, sleeping until the end of time. Just memory.
My friend, it matters to me not, the money you make, you don’t make. The jobs you lost and passed.
I care not for your procrastinations or awful habits life has acquired you. The insecurities, shadiness, lack of choices, clicking your high heels to manufactured options. We are exact opposites, 2 sides of the same coin, and 2 shades of the same color black.
They have the same lines, throw the same paper.
But you can ride shot gun, while I walk.
Rather do, and frequent fairy land on the occasion trip and buzz than fuss over that tainted lump of flesh hanging between their legs, brought in deception, screaming to penetrate my clarity.
My dear friend, I am tired, losing grip sometimes. The thoughts incoherent in my head. Your voice trails on, stuck as a record in the back of my mind,
But this is all for my benefit.
All for my world, for my eyes, for my impression.
A selfish act. Contagious to those impressive and dear friends.
IT’S NOT GOING AWAY!
In harmony, my friend, how far we’ve come.
Yours always, awakened. Impressed.
Your dear friend.
Gino Obuseng
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