at the end of it all...we are what we are

This week, I don't plan to go into some long discourse (primarily because I have nothing to talk about, AND I'm too lazy to even think). So, to keep my blog going, I'm posting this poem I wrote sometime ago.

I hope you enjoy it:


The sons of men
In Abassi’s eyes
Lay naked
Under the noonday skies
Though they covered be
Through a mastered craft
That we do not see
For we have believed
And we now forget
What we really are
In Abassi’s eyes
We are sons of men

exodus of a mind in captivity

Huddled beneath the crushing weight of a thousand angry words, the little boy couldn't but hate himself. Somehow he didn't blame the world - couldn't, shouldn't really - for its anger at him. There was only one person to hate, and that was his maker.

why, o, why did He deem it fit to create him this way? Why did He create him at all? Was it just for the fun of it; having grown weary from the worship of a million years, He now wanted something to taunt at? A new toy?

Why?

He wished he could change himself. Maybe he would start with his hair, or maybe his hard-done skin. Maybe he would learn to speak differently, or even put on another skin.

They told him he was evil, and he believed. He was told that he existed in darkness, and this he received. What was his crime; his disease; his curse?

Nothing. Hurdled beneath the crushing weight of a thousand words, he suddenly realised there was nothing in the world wrong with him. Suddenly, he couldn't but love himself. If the world hated him, then, he decided, they were a victim of their own ignorance, a self-loath which they had yet to know. He thanked his maker, and standing proud and tall, he proclaimed for all the world to hear...

I am African.

I was made from the loam of the horned land,

Shaped as I am by the Lord’s hand.

From my curly hair to my rounded nose;

And my thickly lips to my princely pose,

I was made African.

I was made, and so I am

As dark as Mazi Agwu’s farm;

And I’ll not claim my soul is white,

For it is as dark as my sprite;

I was made African.

My blood is the Niger River,

My vein, the roots of the yellow guava;

My spinal cord is the Iroko,

The colour of my blood is indigo;

I was made African.

I was cooked in the open fire,

I was made with much desire.

There is no dross in me, I’m pure;

I’m all you are and so much more.

I am African.

An evening in nothingness...

Have you ever felt at some time that you were lost? Floating in space with no clue as to what on Earth is going on around (or in) you. As if you were another person in your suit of skin. As if you were living a borrowed life. I've been there a couple of times, and I still visit there now and then. It is a place from where we'll never be free, but a place that offers some respite in a crazy world, nonetheless. Still, even in the midst of all this madness, something within us still fights to anchor us on Earth. A solitary candle glow.

Enjoy today's poem, and just float away to a place of sweet nothingness...

In a hidden part of a broken soul
Lays a solitary candle glow
Which has as its only goal
To mend the shattered golden bowl
To make it shine again as though
It never knew the fatal blow
That made it many pieces be
Thus making different parts of me
Dispelling any certainty
Of who I am.

burn, baby burn!

I want to burn some fat! Okay, I'm not entirely a blob of fat rolling happily on, but I'm not a "knock-ye-down six-packer" either.

But boy, do I love them sweet things.

So, what's to do? I need to go on a diet - that I know- but which one? That's where you come in. Yes, you! You've got to help me! *sob* *sob* *sob*. I just wanna lose the tummy...and the laps...and the (oh, you get the drill).

Adivice, anyone?