to breathe.

When I was eight I wrote a poem about pain like a stone

Because we had moved from our pretty house to a neighborhood foreign to my eyes

When I was ten I carved my heart out through a pen

All the loss of missing a mother splattered on paper

When I was twelve I fell in love with essays

I found it hard to find full stops for an end to words

When I was fourteen I kept two diaries because I found out

Words were a necessity for my survival

When I was sixteen the last page of my every notebook

Was splattered with poems and thoughts that couldn’t stay still

Today you say I am too deep for you, too dark

I think too much; I live in sighs

But how can I explain to you

That it is not for greatness, not out of want

It is my basis of survival rooted in my veins

Not for applaud or choruses

But to breathe

How can I explain how poetry invigorates me

Give me rain and a poem and I will forget existence

Give me a pen and a paper and I will forget you

And if I seem too deep too much too far

Leave me be

My words will take me home.

 

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Of I, the Millennial

(speaking on behalf of millenials)

I, the millennial has a voice today. I dream of freedom, I shout for my rights and if they try to shut me out, I use my fingers as a pen to let the world hear what I have to say. I am an intelligible being and the knowledge of the world is in the palm of my hands. Everything known to man only one click away.  I am opinionated. I feel worthy of existence only for my beliefs.

But I the millennial, am also the shallowest form of a human being that has existed.

I am shaped by the Gods, but my heart and mind is shaped by the people next door. No, no, no, that’s not true. I don’t care what these nosy aunties say about my rants. I am my own being and they have no power over me. Rather, my heart and mind is shaped by the approval of likes and hearts that reach my palms. My bones wait for the command of movement from my brain, but my brain reaches for the guidance of arrows painted by my media icon predecessors.

I can talk to you endlessly about my love for the eras of the yesteryears and rant about how technology divides us all. They even have a term for it you see, ‘the digital divide.’ I turn my hate into words of poetry. Then I download an application to make my poetry look rosy. And I put it up in Instagram and Facebook and Snapchat and WordPress. And I wait patiently to see how the world wide web reacts to my hate for technology.  

My brain has wired itself to turn into an AutoFocus machine. A quiet spot, a valley of trees, lights in the city, food on my plate, people I see. It auto focuses to sight which image would garner most hearts. Validation precedes contemplation. Books only serving as a cover for my cover picture. I, the millennial once seeked knowledge in printed pages, I now seek perfect lines that would look perfect in my bio.

I have the right to freedom of speech. And I write so that the world knows, I am thinking of what they are thinking too. But what if I was not? I fear to see the red curved lines beneath my words in Microsoft Word highlighting a spelling wrong, a plural misused, a past tense presented in present. Like one “Seeks to be seeked,” a line sounding right but there is no such word as seeked and though I like it I must not use it. For it is not accepted by the designers of the WORD JURY.

I, the millennial has a variance of thoughts. Thousands per day. And they are forming a shape, a pattern etched into my system from the moment I wake up. Morning texts meet my eyes, be positive it screams, so I lay my worries aside. While I stand in line for my favorite coffee in a shop that is most posted, I come across a picture of my favorite icon in an island full of sunlight wearing a striped dress that sits light as a feather on her shiny legs. And I have a new goal in mind. A moodboard. A bucket list. To see this island, to wear such dress, to have shiny legs. To the gym I must go. To work I must exceed to earn more. To see islands. A buckelist I form but is it really mine?

I like to talk about my privacy. And often believe the big names out there are to be sued for invasion. My life is for myself. Except the hourly stories I must share so that everyone knows what I am doing. Except the quotes and words I write so people don’t miss out on what I am thinking of. Except about my achievements and my sorrows so a stranger that was once a friend can utter a pitiful sigh.

I, the millennial am a free citizen of the world, only limited by one thought, ‘What would the world think’?