HI, IT’S ME… AGAIN

Hi,

It’s Me Again…

Its how you used to make me feel,
How you make me feel,
It’s how I feel about you.

You cut my mind open,
I poured my heart to you,
My heart yearns.

I miss your touch,
The feel of your tips on my skin,
Ever so immaculate.

I lost my purpose,
The sky is selfish of clouds,
I lost my roots.

I toss and turn,
Karma says its her turn,
My heart is tan.

One last outcry,
That thou shalt hear this farcry,
My heart yearns.

Regards,
Quincy Walukana.

ROOMS

I have been in a lot of rooms,
Rooms with aesthetic pieces of art,
Rooms with items that seemingly suggest its occupants belong to a cult,
Rooms that have however stood out for me are those with sulking hearts.

For instance, I have been within four walls that sheltered a girl who cried of her boyfriend’s inability to provide consistent loving in the attention and time aspects.
I have eavesdropped on conversations where a female complained of how their male partner’s actions seemingly repelled their words of love towards them, since they barely made effort to show how true their words were.

For good to exist,
So must evil.
I have been on the giving side, yet, my ceiling seems to fall towards me every time I mull alone because the other chose otherwise.
Thoughts of talked about circumstances cruise my mind as she enjoys company other than my own.

Call me an attention freak for that is what I am,
Call me nosy for scouting where you are,
Call me yours but only after you assure me that I am the one,
Call me selfish for wanting you all to myself,
But most of all,
Let me in to the room within which your time lies,
The walls within which you harbor your allies,
Under the ceiling, that ceiling which shelters your priorities.

BITCH BY THE BEACH

When the tides wash upon the sea and the sand ushers my message to the shores of foreign lands, I grace the beaches in early morning with the hope that I will hear the messages of fellow crazed, lonely, & phony artistes enslaved by their own presumed strengths; as perceived by the world.

I am neither shocked nor moved by the salty taste of the ocean’s waters. Science has us moving with the fact that diverse elements contribute toward the same but I’m stuck and sailing with the idea that the handful sands of people that cry by water points; lakes, rivers, ponds, seas and oceans all contribute to the salty taste.

I walk in to the open sea until the waters are neck high and I take a dive. I do not cringe upon the forceful entry of the waters in to my mouth.

The taste is not at all pleasant but I relish the feel. It feeds my soul, comforts me that I am not alone, raises my spirit and helps me conform back to my true being.

I yearn to not only immerse myself in it but to also drown and live a life of content.

Yes, we are one big family united by the gaseous ink bottles stashed in our heads under the notion that they’re forms of art.

We seclude ourselves and close out or exclude both those who pretend to care and those that care too not because we or they are selfish but because they do not care enough to break our seals.

We are easy to talk to, that’s why we talk to the world and not individuals. Why? It is because individuals have their own ideologies of how perfect & blessed we are.

Yet the outside world that has no immediate connection easily identifies the chink in our armours and seemingly care to the needed extent.

Walukana.