Hey loves ,
I hope you are well . I am doing great. Sorry I havent been as active this week. Its not writers block , more of alot of my inspiration has come from all the amazing things that have been happening in my life and I feel like it’s too soon . In due time I will post them up . Thanks for everyone who has been so supportive through all this extreme anxiety .
Meanwhile please subscribe to ‘button poetry’ on youtube and also follow Sarah Lyon on Instagram she is amazing. There is also this new post “dear dairy” by ElodieZone on youtube … Its very poetic .
Hope to post up alot next week because I have exams so I will be drowned in Charles Dickens, Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiong’o and the like . They give me alot of inspiration.
Please feel free to text me , DM me or email me for any ideas , recommendations or criticism.
Below is one of my favourite writers (Sarah Kay)poem from her book “No Matter The Wreckage”
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You have taken to wearing around your father’s
hand-me-down anger. I wish that you wouldn’t.
It’s a few sizes too big and everyone can see it doesn’t
fit you, hangs loose in all the wrong places,
even if it does match your skin color.
You think you’ll grow into it: that your arms
will beef up after all the fighting and it will sit on your
shoulders if only you pin it in the right places with
The bathroom mirror tells you, you look good,
your fists look a lot more justified.
When you dig your hands deep into the pockets,
you’ll find stories he left there for you to hand out
to the other boys like car bombs.
On days when everything else is slipping through
your fingers, you can wrap yourself inside of this anger.
This will keep you warm at night, help you drift off to sleep,
with the certainty that no matter what happens,
it will still be there when you wake up.
The longer you wear it, the better it fits.
Until some of those stories are your own. The holes
in the sleeve are from the bullets you dodged yourself.
When it rips, snags on a barbed wire fence or
someone else’s family, don’t worry.
Your mother and your sister will mend it:
patch the holes, sew the tears, replace a button or two.
They will help you back into it and tell you how proud
they are of you; how good it looks on you. The same way
it looked on your dad and your granddad, too.
And on his father before him and on his father before him.
But back then? Back then there was only sand. Until someone
drew a line. Someone built a wall. Someone threw a stone.
And the crack in the skull that it hit fractured perfectly
like twigs on the branches of a family tree, so someone
threw a stone back. And each fracture, each tiny break
wound itself together into thread. The thread pulled itself
around him, your great-great-great-great-somebody.
And on the other side of the wall, they were knitting just as fast and
theirs fit them just as well, only in a slightly different shade.
So I’m asking, when the time comes, who is going to be
the first to put down the needle and thread?
Who is going to be the first to remember that
their grandfather suffered just as many broken windows,
broken hearts, broken bones? And the first time
you come down to dinner, and your son is sitting at the
dining room table wearing your hatred on his shoulders,
who is going to be the first to tell him it is finally time to take it off?