I'm a mad creative on the loose, interested in laws, media and communications, journalism and anything that knowledge could be found in. I view the world as a conglomerate of crumbling realities and is enamoured in how poetry embodies the hope of our collective humanity.
Father,
the winds blow slower than when you left. This town
reeks of the harmony of grief, and I am the lonely
lad you left at this shore, left at the crossroads, to
figure out to gain direction, on how to hit the shots,
on my own.
You left before I could see the world. My mind
boggles out, trying to dissolve that I have to be
strong, for my mother, for my siblings, for the name
you have left me to bear.
I still wear your footwear, Baba. I like the fact that it
reminds me that I cannot fill in your shoes, that I
cannot disobey your guidance, that I dare not
desecrate your name. It reminds me of the fact that
we will meet again, in a place where silence would
no longer hold water, where bliss would finally
matter.
They all expect me to be strong. They all expect me to
live up to the legacy you left, the footprints you
carved. How does a print lives up to the marks of
another print? They do not know you trained me, you
trained us, to be better, to exceed your marks, to
bless the paths that you have crossed. They want me
to live up to your name, when you told me to live
beyond it.
They say I do great works, but they do not see that
you manifest through me. They do realise that you
live vicariously through me, through us, to remind
us that we are all bodies of bliss, touring through
the walkways of our manifestations.
They fear that I may taint your memory, that I may
deviate from your path. But they do not know that I
stay hooked on the path you left, becoming and
unchanging. They do not know no path appear to me
than the one you left, for there is chaos in my head.
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