Forwarded from AY - MIND
This media is not supported in your browser
VIEW IN TELEGRAM
Our motto
'For the shunned and unheard, We mind'
We stand for those whom the society have shunned because of their mental illness. We stand for those who speak out loud about their illness and mental health but had received a deaf ear in return. We strive to build a community that would accept mental health as equal as physical health.
@AYMIND
'For the shunned and unheard, We mind'
We stand for those whom the society have shunned because of their mental illness. We stand for those who speak out loud about their illness and mental health but had received a deaf ear in return. We strive to build a community that would accept mental health as equal as physical health.
@AYMIND
When love arrives
No, it won’t heal you
It won’t hold your hands so you could walk through the tunnel all the way to the light
But it sure will help you turn the grave yard in your heart into a garden
It will sit with you by the other end of the tunnel, in the dark, and you two will sing your
favorite song until the silence leaves the empty that has filled your soul
When love arrives
It won’t come barging in your room and open the curtains to allow the sun in
Because sometimes you hide from the sun
And love would just make you a fortress out of your bed
When love arrives
It will not wipe the bad memories out
It will just move your eyes elsewhere so you could make new ones
When love arrives
There will be a conversation,
Just not always with words
When love arrives
There will still be tears
It will not fill in the gaps
But the tears would roll down with purpose
And you’ll be at peace with the space
When love arrives
No, you will not be saved
You will not be free
You will not be born again
But
You’ll move on
You’ll take a step
One foot after the other
You’ll forgive yourself
You’ll continue to live
When love arrives
It may not take the scar away
But it would make a better use of your pain
Like a content to a poem
A muse to the brush
A tune to a song
Sleep to the eyes
And a dream to the ceiling
No, it won’t heal you
It won’t hold your hands so you could walk through the tunnel all the way to the light
But it sure will help you turn the grave yard in your heart into a garden
It will sit with you by the other end of the tunnel, in the dark, and you two will sing your
favorite song until the silence leaves the empty that has filled your soul
When love arrives
It won’t come barging in your room and open the curtains to allow the sun in
Because sometimes you hide from the sun
And love would just make you a fortress out of your bed
When love arrives
It will not wipe the bad memories out
It will just move your eyes elsewhere so you could make new ones
When love arrives
There will be a conversation,
Just not always with words
When love arrives
There will still be tears
It will not fill in the gaps
But the tears would roll down with purpose
And you’ll be at peace with the space
When love arrives
No, you will not be saved
You will not be free
You will not be born again
But
You’ll move on
You’ll take a step
One foot after the other
You’ll forgive yourself
You’ll continue to live
When love arrives
It may not take the scar away
But it would make a better use of your pain
Like a content to a poem
A muse to the brush
A tune to a song
Sleep to the eyes
And a dream to the ceiling
The day I almost quit writing
#1
“Daughter, read me your latest piece”
My mother said
“You know they say you are as good as your last work” she added
Then I smiled
Thinking of the last thing I wrote
Nothing.
“Does it hurt?” I asked
She laughed, “What, death?”
I nodded while looking around a cave she resided in
That’s the thing about her
She makes a home out of every place she goes to
I can see she has made a home out of heaven
Or even of dreams in this case
“No, it doesn’t hurt at all” she assured me
I looked around
“Then why are you here all by yourself?” I asked again
She shrugged
“So, where is it, come on, read me your poems”
She was desperate for a story
Or just for anything
Anything with feelings
“They say you are as good as your last work”
How good can nothing be?
How good could a blank paper thrown across my room be?
How good are my words I keep swallowing?
How good is a dream neglected?
I woke up
I made a paper out of my palm and started to write
“You are as good as your last work” they say
I am still writing
And I am as good as my notebook full of moments
Mistakes
Crossed out dreams
As good as my pen which has run out of ink
As good as my broken keyboard
My tears
My ceiling
My walls
And everything that says
“I
A poet
was here”
#1
“Daughter, read me your latest piece”
My mother said
“You know they say you are as good as your last work” she added
Then I smiled
Thinking of the last thing I wrote
Nothing.
“Does it hurt?” I asked
She laughed, “What, death?”
I nodded while looking around a cave she resided in
That’s the thing about her
She makes a home out of every place she goes to
I can see she has made a home out of heaven
Or even of dreams in this case
“No, it doesn’t hurt at all” she assured me
I looked around
“Then why are you here all by yourself?” I asked again
She shrugged
“So, where is it, come on, read me your poems”
She was desperate for a story
Or just for anything
Anything with feelings
“They say you are as good as your last work”
How good can nothing be?
How good could a blank paper thrown across my room be?
How good are my words I keep swallowing?
How good is a dream neglected?
I woke up
I made a paper out of my palm and started to write
“You are as good as your last work” they say
I am still writing
And I am as good as my notebook full of moments
Mistakes
Crossed out dreams
As good as my pen which has run out of ink
As good as my broken keyboard
My tears
My ceiling
My walls
And everything that says
“I
A poet
was here”
Forwarded from ETHIOPIAN SPACE SCIENCE SOCIETY (Beza T)
Solar eclipse from Lalibela. Taken by Nahome Tesfaye
My mind covers my eyes so I won’t see the pain coming.
“Pick a memory and explore all the moments, leave nothing out.” I heard a woman talking on becoming a poet.
I spent hours trying to pick a memory. But, I have none. And I have many.
I saw pictures taken from far so to fit everyone at home in one picture turn into a close-up portrait as numbers dropped.
I grew up in a happy home, that I know. I closed my eyes trying to remember what it was like to be the little girl everyone talked about. The little girl who made everyone laugh with her jokes. The little girl with a big smile on her face.
I remember the stories told about the five-year-old girl. I just don’t remember ever being five. Of seven. Or ten. Or thirteen.
And so, I started going through a photo album with faces I no longer recognize.
In it, I saw my parents growing old together.
And after some pages, it was just my mother, growing older by herself.
In the album, I saw promises made and broken.
I saw a little girl grow.
I saw the how house never changed.
I saw pictures taken from far so to fit everyone at home in one picture turn into a closeup portrait as numbers dropped.
And I wondered
Which memory should I pick and explore
I know.
“The days I used to read for my father.” Oh but wait. I don’t remember any of that. It was one of the stories I was told growing up.
All the pictures showed how I never left my father’s side
But I don’t even remember what he looked like
In the pictures, I saw a little girl
With a smile that didn’t really grow old with her
I have so many moments and no memory of any of them.
But if I dig deeper,
I’d remember the moment where my mother told me she missed her husband
Or when she told me he’d be back from the dead
She wasn’t lying, really, she just hoped.
I have grown to discern between the two
As I have been waiting for her every single day since the day she never said goodbye
Telling myself, “She’ll be back”
The number of albums in our home decreased into family pictures taken over the holidays
Which I try to remember.
And, here I have with me,
Evidence that I was once a child
Which I have no memory of
Because every time I hurt
My mind covers my eyes so I won’t see the pain coming
The day I lost my mother
I fell asleep right after I heard the news
Like I said,
My mind covers my eyes so I won’t see the pain coming.
And now I have stories and pictures of her so I won’t forget what her face looked like
Even if it was only 10 years ago that she never said goodbye
I close my eyes
And I see my childhood,
A little kid growing up as her mother’s best friend
I hear our laughter
I feel our bond
I just don’t see our faces
There is a vast blank within my mind that grows expanding day by day
And I grew up to be a poet on the process of trying to remember
Here I am now,
Trying to explore a memory that I don’t ever remember living
Trying to describe a face I don’t remember wearing
“Leave out nothing.” The women said
But I don’t remember almost anything.
Because every time I hurt
My mind covers my eyes so I won’t see the pain coming.
But like I said
I have pictures
Saying that I was once a child
With a smile on her face.
She never ever dreamt of becoming a poet
Or she would have never lost her smile.
Now, I look around
I see the house remains the same
And that we are back to taking pictures from a corner
As numbers have gone up once again.
I would pick a memory
But my eyes are covered.
“Pick a memory and explore all the moments, leave nothing out.” I heard a woman talking on becoming a poet.
I spent hours trying to pick a memory. But, I have none. And I have many.
I saw pictures taken from far so to fit everyone at home in one picture turn into a close-up portrait as numbers dropped.
I grew up in a happy home, that I know. I closed my eyes trying to remember what it was like to be the little girl everyone talked about. The little girl who made everyone laugh with her jokes. The little girl with a big smile on her face.
I remember the stories told about the five-year-old girl. I just don’t remember ever being five. Of seven. Or ten. Or thirteen.
And so, I started going through a photo album with faces I no longer recognize.
In it, I saw my parents growing old together.
And after some pages, it was just my mother, growing older by herself.
In the album, I saw promises made and broken.
I saw a little girl grow.
I saw the how house never changed.
I saw pictures taken from far so to fit everyone at home in one picture turn into a closeup portrait as numbers dropped.
And I wondered
Which memory should I pick and explore
I know.
“The days I used to read for my father.” Oh but wait. I don’t remember any of that. It was one of the stories I was told growing up.
All the pictures showed how I never left my father’s side
But I don’t even remember what he looked like
In the pictures, I saw a little girl
With a smile that didn’t really grow old with her
I have so many moments and no memory of any of them.
But if I dig deeper,
I’d remember the moment where my mother told me she missed her husband
Or when she told me he’d be back from the dead
She wasn’t lying, really, she just hoped.
I have grown to discern between the two
As I have been waiting for her every single day since the day she never said goodbye
Telling myself, “She’ll be back”
The number of albums in our home decreased into family pictures taken over the holidays
Which I try to remember.
And, here I have with me,
Evidence that I was once a child
Which I have no memory of
Because every time I hurt
My mind covers my eyes so I won’t see the pain coming
The day I lost my mother
I fell asleep right after I heard the news
Like I said,
My mind covers my eyes so I won’t see the pain coming.
And now I have stories and pictures of her so I won’t forget what her face looked like
Even if it was only 10 years ago that she never said goodbye
I close my eyes
And I see my childhood,
A little kid growing up as her mother’s best friend
I hear our laughter
I feel our bond
I just don’t see our faces
There is a vast blank within my mind that grows expanding day by day
And I grew up to be a poet on the process of trying to remember
Here I am now,
Trying to explore a memory that I don’t ever remember living
Trying to describe a face I don’t remember wearing
“Leave out nothing.” The women said
But I don’t remember almost anything.
Because every time I hurt
My mind covers my eyes so I won’t see the pain coming.
But like I said
I have pictures
Saying that I was once a child
With a smile on her face.
She never ever dreamt of becoming a poet
Or she would have never lost her smile.
Now, I look around
I see the house remains the same
And that we are back to taking pictures from a corner
As numbers have gone up once again.
I would pick a memory
But my eyes are covered.
I'm a poet
Not yet Poetry
But if I shall ever become a poem
Write me within a Haiku
where I never have to rhyme.
Not yet Poetry
But if I shall ever become a poem
Write me within a Haiku
where I never have to rhyme.
And sometimes,
Pain camouflages itself into dreams
hopes
and forgiveness.
Make-believe healing.
Pain camouflages itself into dreams
hopes
and forgiveness.
Make-believe healing.