The texts stopped abruptly
No more good mornings and
tears and anxiety replace the dopamine rush
I cry in silence and my fingers twitch to text "Why"?
But instead, I will cry these tears and dry these tears
and smile tomorrow because this too shall pass.
Oh you pale skinned, thin lipped one With the covetous eyes Century after century you stride Across nations leaving trails of blood and gore The Congolese paid for your visit with the fractured arms of men, women and children, Africans visited your abode like cattle, sold of and branded You took off one mask and wore another Self proclaimed superior who survived from the teat of Africa and the backs of her children You led and segregated Stole the lands and looked down your noses as Africa broke and grew, grew and died, died and knew, knew and now fight, You steely eyed thieves, dripping with lies, Providing the guns and bullets to brothers who fight and die for you the ghoul to steal their carcasses. Your visit is the visit of the dead
The revealer, arbiter, leveler of time you fall heavily, softly, slowly, you fall on us all we are all allotted portions of your rare gifts, careful portions, spaces that seem to spawn and seem so small we crawl and walk, some do not and fade we walk and talk , but that portion is denied to orders we talk and comprehend, while others fly into the abyss of the void we know, grow and blossom, beautiful and strong, we think and worry we worry and accept the fates, some broken, some fiery, some weary and jaded we see the signs of the passing days, on our faces, on our hair, in the eyes of children, who start the same circle, we wait and rest, our weary bones, tired legs and long for days of the past. our deaths are the comeuppance of living, we spent out time
What does a broken soul look like It is the thousand-year stare from empty dead eyes, vacant and numb Triggers playing on a loop of tortured memories It is the tiredness of the rested And the rest of the tired... Weary from thoughts that line up like executioners each shooting to kill It is the weariness and the tearless cry That rips through you and you talk to yourself Because no one wishes to hear It is the quiet despair that sits with you wearily at noon You welcome sleep from the turmoil Alas sleep itself is full of torment so you wake unrested...and tired The days are bleak...the future tortuous...the past tormentous and the present enveloped in an unending blanket of pain You call to heaven...the silence is darker than hope...
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