Poetry

Rotten, ripen

I grew up hating myself

I would lace my blooming body in dirty rags

Slam it into walls to disfigure my ripening bossoms

And drape cloth over curves to hide away my woman-hood.

It didn’t make sense to me.

How could fruit grow

On the outside

Of a rotten centre?

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Contemplating the misery of university

I was thinking of going travelling next year. Well, the latter half of next year, when the new academic year starts.

I don’t think I can quite handle university yet, so I thought I would skip it for another year.

I have a lot to learn about the world that I just haven’t learnt. I’m not nearly as stable as I would like to be mentally. Actually, I am quite all over the place and there are days where I can barely function like a human being because I am so exhausted with life. Or, there are days when all I can do is look ahead at the gaping hole that is my future and how I shrink in comparison does is not an appealing feeling.

I say this all as someone who is contemplating not going to university. So, I am unsure.

You see, we are told from very young ages that is our destiny.

We go through Primary School being asked, what do you want to do in the future. And soon enough, our answer transform from the laid back response of astronauts and firemen to an elated eleven year old screaming university.

And then you have secondary school, same question is asked, but that elation diminishes into a small fear. Because no one knows what they want to do, and by the time you finish your Secondary School career, your heart is experiencing small palpitations because you think you’ve chosen what you want to do, but you’re still unsure.

And finally, you’ve made it to sixth form/college and you’re in your final year and the same question is asked “What do you want to do?” But this time, louder, as if someone is screaming right through your eardrums and to the pre-frontal cortex of your brain. And it’s like your whole world is defined on it, like once you get there, there is either a ladder hanging 2 feet from the cliffs edge attached to the steps of university. Or a gorge below you, where you must step off the cliff in order to reach the rich treasures that self-determination gets you when you decide to build your own ladder to reach the top.

It’s funny, because no one tells you about that horrendous fall you must endure. They are too busy preparing you for the bright lights of university. Which I still want to go to. Just not yet.

Not yet.

The question is, is six months enough for me to feel fulfilled? I don’t know.

Nakedstreetkid out x

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Nostalgic in London

It never once occurred to me that I could even miss London. I’ve always thought of London as this place that I reside in – that I exist in. Where extreme poverty and extreme wealth live side by side. Nothing ever seemed fair in London because facts were constantly hidden from outsiders. And I’ve always been disgruntled – unforgiving – of that point. So, I thought, why not make a living somewhere else? Why not make my mark somewhere else?

And the best place for that was at university.

So, I’ve applied for universities outside of London simply because I hated this constant pretence that is painted all over the place in London. The government does a very good job of doing this by highlighting the diversity of culture, religion and ethnicity. When in actual fact, there are isolated pockets of religions (and in turn ethnicities) scattered across London.

A classic allotment of Ghettos make up the majority of the city. In Stamford Hill you have a majority of Jewish population, in Bow you have people of African descent and in Tower Hamlet you have people of Bangladeshi origins. That’s not to say that there aren’t other religions or races living there, just that there isn’t this picture of complete equality that the government attempts to present to the public. And they do this again and again by marginalising the inequalities that exist in London.

And it’s frustrating and annoying. And I really wanted to leave. But now, not so much.

Because even though there are ghettos that exist, we as the young don’t really stay in them. The rich mix with the poor, Bangladeshi with the African, Christian with the Muslim. The divisions constructed by the old are easily knocked down by the young as the youth are able to take steps out of their comfort zones.

We make our own culture, recognise our own differences bur draw closer together as a unit because we know our similarities are stronger. There is something incredibly temporary about growing up this way. How much longer can we stand together before our parents continue to crack away at our unity by enlarging our differences?

But still, I am going to miss London. I’m going to miss it so much because I’ll miss the youthful culture that the young have manifested from our truths.

I’m sorry, this probably all makes no sense. So, I am sorry. I just wanted to write. I should probably wait a bit, look over all the mistakes I have surely made from writing this in one go. But I really must start getting ready for a workshop I have today. So, mistakes and all.

This shall be posted.

Nakedstreetkid out! 🙂

Poetry

When God happens

When God happens we are left with a myriad of excuses escaping mouths without mourning. People grieving for their loved ones hidden under lands covered in sand and sweat. Soldiers running from point A to B without remembering that their actions amount to very little, but the construction of loathing within a new generations mind. New excuses are made. Filled with the hatred of the young, fueled by the hatred of the old. Fear is so easily mistaken for bravery.

New soldiers arrive. Eager to destroy others without the true realisation they are killing people. Not just the men that the bullets that are used to tear through the flesh but the children of these men. The wives and mothers of these men. The friends of these men. When they kill one, they kill many.

They kill so many.