I asked the DJ to play me a soft song. He said, “Fine, I know what you mean by soft song.” A medley of strings and piano followed, voiceless melodies that soothed my ears and soul. But then I realized how sad it sounded like a loss, like the cello was weeping and the piano was groaning. I wondered why it comforted me. Was I sad? Was I trying to empathize with the untold and unknown pain of this nameless composer? Did he or she see through me, see the fissures that needed to be woven together by the strings? Were the chords there to muffle my pain a pain of unknown source, with no name and no aim, floating effortlessly through my mind and body? I looked at it in defeat, knowing I couldn’t hold it, much less capture it. Perhaps these songs give me closure, and comfort in the knowing that pain is always somewhere, floating quietly within me.

What if hope was but a forgotten song, Silenced by the cacophony of our worries. Unaware of how our story would unfold, we sought solace in the familiarity of our pain and raised our hands in solidarity, Only to be broken by defeat. And then we grasped our pitchforks and hoes, marching into battle we couldn't name. Imagine if we'd trusted the system  of potbellies, grey heads and crafty tongues. And rooted our hope in the transient, in tales left incomplete. Imagine if we'd had no one to listen to our cries, petitions and prayers. what if we had no supreme being to grant us understanding, then we'd all take turns at the altar of despair to end our worthless lives.

As a young girl, I would always worry about the fiasco that happened in the evening. All the females would assemble, under the dim-lit lanterns.  The clanging of pots, and the squishing of leaves. To the tinge of fishes slapping against hot oil and it was absolutely underwhelming. Everyone's face always seemed to be in some concoction of panic and anger. Tempers would rise over nearly burnt meat, Impatience over a stew taking too long. I was always forced to watch this fiasco,  and even try and contribute even if it were just passing a spoon. I longed for the restoration of my time, where the room wasn't charged with the urgency of feeding the folks, where salt wasn't sprinkled and pestle wasn't in a battle with the mortar, where my eyes didn't sting from the spices, and my tongue wasn't assaulted with a warring taste. Many a dishes would file out and I always wondered why I never liked them. The men would praise and lick their plates, my siblings would look lon...

The head of the house had a sweet old mouth, that he only used for whining.

It's a little padding  for an intricate mind.

I thought surely her hair had to be that length, when she didn't put a scissor to her braids,

There's something so freeing about the walkways, sidewalks and hallways. In my head, they morph into runways.

I am restless! Tormented by reels of you

Top up their plates, You know the boys are hungry.

The titular beast has awoken

Mama is your womb empty Could I crawl back in

Wandering soul, barely a quarter of its span, Bristles at the wind, like harassed aged leaves.

Behind the poet, is the troubled soul. Sneaking through pen to paper.

Will the earth be filled,  If I shed a tear for the lost ones?

I'm here, so whenever at all you need me I go no where, For even if you ghost out, I will remain for I am an oddity.

I cannot save the world, That's for a bigger hand.

  Gather around!!  Grab your party hats and blow the balloons. it's a party for the broken and lost.

  It's minutes past midnight, I've stared at the ceiling, I've circled with the fan, and I've counted sheep.

  The words of the lord The pastor had told Was stuck in traffic

  How much do you remember? Do you know the secrets I told only the creator?