some poetry

I will waste no more time complaining or attempting to articulate.

I am waiting for this thing to happen. I am waiting to be fully realised. I am not sure whether I need to do anything whilst waiting, or if it will happen by itself. Like growth. Like ageing. Like death.

Mine is a story about continually attempting to evade capture, and the simultaneous desire to be held.

I thought I’d write some nice poetry about horrible times:

 

**

Just because

I respond to violences

that

you

cannot

see or sense,

does not mean that I am psychotic.

**

I don’t think in images, I am images.

This is what I have been meaning to tell you: I think in rhythm.

I am always syncopated – it is because I am black?

Is it because I am obsessed with invisible things?

It’s day two of my private dances.

You are all public. And my body is an animal.

**

It must be hard

not to have multiple personalities

these days,

and who knows about those days that were before.

**

London; I have everything I want aside from a future.

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