Crumpled Words

It’s 4 AM on Monday morning when the traffic outside my window hums to life. And somewhere in my building a toilet is flushed, and running water spills through pipes behind a wall.

I sit staring at the four clichéd lines in my notebook, that suddenly become squished inside a crumpled ball of paper thrown on my bedroom floor. I pinch my eyes tight to get hold of any reasons that might be there - reasons for the emptiness that has suddenly opened up between us, reasons for the coldness, the hunger - but find none. And still,

the lines I send out spoil the words that return -

his carefully chosen words, that drip without emotion over staggered lips and fall like pulp from his thoughts of me squeezed through cyber space. He stares blankly, as the lines he wanted to say lie squished inside a crumpled ball of paper on his bedroom floor.

Nothing Matters

hours go by,
days,
and then weeks.
and when months
blow past me
like bubble gum wrappers
and empty potato chip bags
along a dusty sidewalk,
nothing seems to matter.

and the cold, deep places
fall into colder,
deeper places,
then out of sight.

and you don’t reach
for me.
and when the memory
of the reaching
fades,
nothing matters
anymore.

Afrofest 2005

I was out at Afrofest yesterday and had a wonderful time. I found myself surrounded by African art, music and culture that thrilled me to no end.

When my friend and I first arrived, Allakomi was preforming on the main stage. Their lively enthusiasm was contagious and the beats they pounded out on their traditional African instruments was extremely electrifying.

There was an energized buzz in the air, as I stepped out of my usual shyness, and spoke to vendors and visitors as though they were all my brothers and sisters. And they were. And I watched as children and adults alike enjoyed the lively atmosphere of the day.

I ate fried plantain, dumplings (whose name I couldn't pronounce and now can't remember), and beef stew. I bought a traditional African outfit and danced to the lively beats of the music.

In my growing passion for Africa and its peoples and cultures, I had not known that so much of Africa was alive and living right here in my own city. But now that I know, nothing will be able to stop me from embracing it and making it all mine.

Sick Of Being Alone

I gulp down another forkful of loneliness
and choke on the excuses smothering it,
the way globs of ketchup
would cover clumps of unpalatable mashed potatoes.
My stomach tightens,
heaves
and threatens to throw it all back.
I gag,
then swallow.

Lies squirt my eyes
with the pungent juices
of a ripe onion,
and send the tears over my teeth
to wash down the lumps.

I burp up a memory from the past
and re-taste its teases
on the edges of my tongue,
before slowly guiding another forkful
toward the back of my throat.
Bile rises. I gag,
then swallow.

Read more poems by JMariah

The word "Love"

The word “love” has become a cliché, an over-used word who’s meaning has been reduced to a vague, trite, even laughable collection of emotions that song writers and poets pen, that teenagers aspire to attain, and that mature adults avoid mentioning for fear of being shunned by their peers. And what makes the romantic dreaming of love so commonplace, while the true and honest act of loving is so difficult to obtain? Is it that we have romanticised the once-upon-a-time and so totally swallowed the lie of the fairy-tale happy-ever-after that we’ve left the whole idea of love void of rational thinking? Is it that we are expecting to easily “fall” into love as opposed to work our way through it? And after all, is it really the ending to a story or a process of life?