My Work

It hit me again. I stand outside my own work, beyond my own worth...a craft, an artwork that only blooms in the deepest darkest season of sorrow. It rains, the drops of water on my face, it reigns, the merging of tears with this flood. I close my eyes and see my own casket, imaginary eulogies said by my friends, foes, family, and acquaintances.

I should be crying but I can't let it go, the thought of the bitter sweet nature of this demise, separating body from spirit.. The thought of seeing my mother's face once again, the thought of hearing my father's wails! The thought that I might have caused this span to shorten, beyond it's duration. Be strong, be steadfast, be hopeful, careful and alive.

Live Afrikim! Live! Life has so much to offer they say, but afterwards? What happens to the fruits that grow from the seed offering? U give me a bite, taste life they say! Enjoy it, but don't get too comfortable! The harsh reality of death lingering hits me one more time and I flick the switch. Crawling into the darkness that has been I. The darkness that has been me.

I'm exhausted, drained...questioning every breath, probing every dawn and making no "long-term" plans. My joints hurt, knees are weak, cant stand, sit or sleep. Insomnia is my buddy and restlessness fills my body. Yet I stand firm, these shoulders hold many heads, soaked with so many's tears...still I stand, on shaking ankles, still I stand...on shaky grounds.

I turn around and dry my father's tears, I look forward and walk into my mother's awaiting embrace. Yet, it hit me, I'm only standing in the bathtub that is now filled with my own tears. I scrub, scrub, and...I realize, maybe it's time for a tear drought, maybe it's time for a rebirth, force it till u feel it buki! Smile till u mean it, because whether u like it or not, grand ma said "que sera"...whatever will be, will be...

It hurts, it burns, it aches...the worst part of it all is that i'm still fucking awake! The price I pay for being a "love child"...why punish me? Let me inflict this pain on myself...hand me a lighter, pass me a razor and watch me push the limits. How's that for a crisis?

...self induced closure, self fulfilling prophecies, subjective memory and inflicted pain...this is me, this is I, this is...my artwork, my life, my painting...my cross.