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.
Be kind to yourself
Healing cannot happen without getting wounded
Whether in opening old ones
Or
Stitching.
Healing cannot happen without getting wounded
Whether in opening old ones
Or
Stitching.
"Why are you always looking for trouble?" they ask
"Because
As a poet
Nothing terrifies me more than a blank page
A blank mind" I'd say
"Because
As a poet
Nothing terrifies me more than a blank page
A blank mind" I'd say
Have you ever prayed to your pain
Asking it to take its foot off of your heart so you can take a breath.
Have you ever prayed to your tears
Asking if they can stay in a little bit longer
At least until you are by yourself
Have you ever prayed to your memories
Begging if they would let you see a face
Hear the voice
Of the lost one
Have you ever prayed to your mind
Asking for a break
Have you ever prayed to your heart
Hoping it doesn't listen to the mind
Have you ever prayed to your breath
Asking if it could just flow
And not break
Have you ever prayed to life
Asking if it knows you by your name
Have you ever prayed to death
Asking when
Have you ever prayed to closed eyes
Asking if they can take you somewhere else
Anywhere else
But here
Have you ever prayed to your arms
Begging to not give up
Have you ever prayed to your voice
Asking
" Are you there?"
Have you ever prayed to your scars
Asking if they could turn themselves in to beauty marks
Have you ever prayed to time
Asking if it could stop for a minute
Have you ever prayed to God
Asking if he remembers creating you.
Have you ever prayed
Because
You want to fight one more day.
One more life.
One more you.
Asking it to take its foot off of your heart so you can take a breath.
Have you ever prayed to your tears
Asking if they can stay in a little bit longer
At least until you are by yourself
Have you ever prayed to your memories
Begging if they would let you see a face
Hear the voice
Of the lost one
Have you ever prayed to your mind
Asking for a break
Have you ever prayed to your heart
Hoping it doesn't listen to the mind
Have you ever prayed to your breath
Asking if it could just flow
And not break
Have you ever prayed to life
Asking if it knows you by your name
Have you ever prayed to death
Asking when
Have you ever prayed to closed eyes
Asking if they can take you somewhere else
Anywhere else
But here
Have you ever prayed to your arms
Begging to not give up
Have you ever prayed to your voice
Asking
" Are you there?"
Have you ever prayed to your scars
Asking if they could turn themselves in to beauty marks
Have you ever prayed to time
Asking if it could stop for a minute
Have you ever prayed to God
Asking if he remembers creating you.
Have you ever prayed
Because
You want to fight one more day.
One more life.
One more you.
A collaboration piece with @vectorart
A frame can hold broken pieces as one
Giving you the illusion of wholeness
Trace back each crack and they will lead you to a single point left untreated
Its survival depends on the frame
Take it away and it all crumbles before your eyes.
A frame can hold broken pieces as one
Giving you the illusion of wholeness
Trace back each crack and they will lead you to a single point left untreated
Its survival depends on the frame
Take it away and it all crumbles before your eyes.
Forwarded from The Urban Center ( Kebet Eske Ketema)
"ኢትዮጵያዊ የፈጠራ ኢንዱስትሪ ፤ እንዴት አለማቀፋዊ ድንበሮችን ይሻገሩ?" በሚል ርዕስ ከብሩህ ክለብ መሥራች እና የቀድሞ የብሪትሽ ካውንስል አርትስ ፕሮግራም ዳይሬክተር ማህሌት ማዕረጉ ጋር ውይይት ይኖረናል።
ማክሰኞ የካቲት 2 2013 ከምሽቱ 2 ሰዓት እስከ 3 እንድትከታተሉ እና እንድትሳተፉ እንጋብዛለን ።
የከቤት እስከ ከተማ አዘጋጆች ።
Under the title "Ethiopian Creatives Industries : How to Cross International Borders" we will be talking to Mahlet Mairegu , the founder of Bruh Club and former British Council’s Arts Programme Manager.
Tune in and have your say live from 8 to 9 pm on tomorrow Tuesday February 9, 2021
The Kek team
ማክሰኞ የካቲት 2 2013 ከምሽቱ 2 ሰዓት እስከ 3 እንድትከታተሉ እና እንድትሳተፉ እንጋብዛለን ።
የከቤት እስከ ከተማ አዘጋጆች ።
Under the title "Ethiopian Creatives Industries : How to Cross International Borders" we will be talking to Mahlet Mairegu , the founder of Bruh Club and former British Council’s Arts Programme Manager.
Tune in and have your say live from 8 to 9 pm on tomorrow Tuesday February 9, 2021
The Kek team
Yes, that.
Those days
You know,
Where your lungs feels like a solitary confinement with four people in it breathing over your shoulder
You know,
Where your eyes are sensitive to light,
Any light
Light coming from your phone, the window, fluorescent tubes, smiles and kind hearts
You know,
Where you can taste the rust against the weathering gears in your brain
Where you hear others calling out your name but you have to blink hard a couple of times
To make sure whether you’re falling asleep or if it’s really coming from across your table
You know,
Where you don’t want to get out of the taxi
In fact, you didn’t want to get in, in the first place
In fact, you wanted to stay in
In your room
your bed
your mind
your dream
your skin
You know,
.
.
.
Don’t you?
Those days
You know,
Where your lungs feels like a solitary confinement with four people in it breathing over your shoulder
You know,
Where your eyes are sensitive to light,
Any light
Light coming from your phone, the window, fluorescent tubes, smiles and kind hearts
You know,
Where you can taste the rust against the weathering gears in your brain
Where you hear others calling out your name but you have to blink hard a couple of times
To make sure whether you’re falling asleep or if it’s really coming from across your table
You know,
Where you don’t want to get out of the taxi
In fact, you didn’t want to get in, in the first place
In fact, you wanted to stay in
In your room
your bed
your mind
your dream
your skin
You know,
.
.
.
Don’t you?
Do not get used to a routine that isn’t yours
Do not get used to the collective conversations from across a corridor
Do not get used to the phone rings
The tea breaks
The 5:30 pm rush to leave
The taxi line
Your cubicle
Do not get used to leaving your signature so obliviously that you don’t even check the date
Do not get used to breathing in blames and breathing out okays
Do not get used to your plastic chair
Do not get used to your meeting notebooks
Do not get used to problems that aren’t yours
Do not get used to names you can’t put a face on
Do not get used to time you watch passing by you
Do not get used to a life you’re obligately living
Do not get used to the collective conversations from across a corridor
Do not get used to the phone rings
The tea breaks
The 5:30 pm rush to leave
The taxi line
Your cubicle
Do not get used to leaving your signature so obliviously that you don’t even check the date
Do not get used to breathing in blames and breathing out okays
Do not get used to your plastic chair
Do not get used to your meeting notebooks
Do not get used to problems that aren’t yours
Do not get used to names you can’t put a face on
Do not get used to time you watch passing by you
Do not get used to a life you’re obligately living
Somedays
It takes my soul a number of existence
A number of lives
Within her
The old lady with a woven past around her neck
Within him
The young boy drunk in youth
Within it
A wasted dream
Within God himself
In flesh trying to fit into the skin of man
And
Somedays
It takes closing my eyes
Taking off all that skin and flesh
And there
I find myself
A pure energy
Until I have to be human again
It takes my soul a number of existence
A number of lives
Within her
The old lady with a woven past around her neck
Within him
The young boy drunk in youth
Within it
A wasted dream
Within God himself
In flesh trying to fit into the skin of man
And
Somedays
It takes closing my eyes
Taking off all that skin and flesh
And there
I find myself
A pure energy
Until I have to be human again
Check out my new account for experimental pieces @evertedjournals on IG.
••••
When I was young
Time held my hands
and helped me walk
One step after the other.
When I fell
It sat next to me
And waited.
How patient it was with my heart.
and now
As a grown up
I don’t fall as often as I used to,
But, when I do, it takes more time to get back up
And Time doesn’t wait for its peers
It goes on
Here I am
Lost
Tracing its footsteps.
Music: Solo Acoustic 5
Music by audionautix.com
#stopmotionpaper #stopmotion #stopmotionvideo #stopmotionlovers #time#poetrycommunity #poeticthoughts #poetryofinstagram #poetsociety
••••
When I was young
Time held my hands
and helped me walk
One step after the other.
When I fell
It sat next to me
And waited.
How patient it was with my heart.
and now
As a grown up
I don’t fall as often as I used to,
But, when I do, it takes more time to get back up
And Time doesn’t wait for its peers
It goes on
Here I am
Lost
Tracing its footsteps.
Music: Solo Acoustic 5
Music by audionautix.com
#stopmotionpaper #stopmotion #stopmotionvideo #stopmotionlovers #time#poetrycommunity #poeticthoughts #poetryofinstagram #poetsociety