Well done, A

It was partly because A now had a life
A’s golden hair standing on end
A was a sun that blemished my childhood

But A claimed to be a hair dresser
Refining the work of God
Trimming away human’s distasteful need to grow

A said the customers were usually celebrities
Their laughs almost obnoxious
Their screeches of disapproval cutting too finely into the cold air

But because A’s manager understood A’s perils
A never got sacked
I wish A had gotten sacked

It would have made these thoughts less painful
The way A’s hand would skim higher and higher up my legs
Penetrating through my innocence with a single glance

I hate A

But now A had a life

A’s life was full of pride
A’s parents, friends, family were all proud of A
Well done A

Congratulations on zip locking my self-worth
Hammering away my pride and covering it in a cloak of shame

I really appreciate it


Re: Do you not have African hands as well?

A reply to my friend’s question explaining why I would be unable to defeat a burglar without my mother if one was to walk into my house.

“My African hands have been weeded of its roughness, exfoliated with the British culture that has moulded my character. So, that even though I can carry the same amount as my mother can, I cannot dish out the punishment that is produced. I cannot lay my hands heavy on another man without my chivalry being shattered in the process.”

Nakedstreetkid out ;P


Friendly perspective

I miss my friends.

In that weird I-haven’t-seen-y’all-for-so-fudging-long kind of way. It was great because for the first time in a long time I felt refreshed. And that is so rare now-a-days because I’ve just been stressed with school, mainly. You see, because these friends were from my secondary school, seeing them allowed for a subtle disruption in my routine. Seeing them allowed me to gain perspective. It allowed me to see that I was being self-involved and hella selfish for the last few days.

I really want to be happy but that won’t happen until I decide to fight for my happiness. Until I do things because I want to instead of looking over my shoulder and making sure I please everybody else. I want to do things for other people but I need to learn to strike up a balance between being selfish and being selfless. It is not black or white, there is an in-between and gosh darn it, am I going to find that middle.

Nakedstreetkid out! ;P


Fear and stimulus

Life is for the clinically insane, emotionally resistant human beings who have seemed to adapt to the perils of the world.

“Fear and stimulus.” Fear and stimulus, that’s what Sherlock said. The Hounds of Baskerville. An almost eerie setting which placed an intelligent man in an unconventional and almost frightening environment. Only to discover that the fantasy created by an insane man – a fantasy filled to the brim with monsters fit for horrific childhood stories – were a reality.

Only those with a mind open to both the fantasies and realities of this world will see its interiors clearly. Only they will be able to look past the slime that has accumulated on the surface of a rusted world.

With enough fear, anyone can see it.


Paper Aeroplane

When I was a kid, I used to dream that I could glide around my house on a paper aeroplane. The paper aeroplane wouldn’t get bigger but I would get smaller. I would fit in the slip between the folded paper and just glide. I would glide all around my house. From my living room to my kitchen to my bedroom. Hands holding tightly onto the folds, making sure I was tucked between its wings so I wouldn’t fall out. And I would lean from left to right. Past my screaming father, past my emotionally bruised mother and through the open window. Free from the violence and the uncertainty.

Free from the irregular outbursts of anger forever.

This never happened, of course. I would return slowly, slowly out of my daydreams and wake up in a world of frequent irregular outburst from a father who would release his anger through slaps to the face and kicks to the torso. Anger in his eyes and shouts spitting my way. Purging away at my sense of self.

The only place that seemed safe was in my daydreams. In my paper aeroplane, cruising through the thin sky, avoiding the tainted air that surrounded my father.

Safe forever in my daydreams. Only one could hope the same would happen in reality.