Last week I went to see the big game. And everyone was there. The N’gina family from 2 doors down, The Cheng family from across the street, The guys I see going to the mosque sometimes, The ladies who always greet me when I’m on my job shift, Even the guys I saw at the pride march last week.
I see a world of colour on the other side, While I sit on mine, amidst a white sea of like-minded men.
As the game plays on, my team’s winning. It’s so clear they’re cheating, but nothing goes noticed by the ref, Who calls out members of the other team for nothing.
Soon, the game’s over. We won by a landslide. The other fans are so proud of their team, and of themselves.
A little too proud. One man spits and swears at Mr N’gina, making monkey noises. Another makes buck teeth at Mrs. Cheng, speaking in a mock Asian accent. Some more shout abuse at the guys from the mosque, and at the pride-march guys. And another man shouts at the nice ladies from the shop, Telling them to get back in the kitchen. And as I sit among these people, None of their victims react. None of them hit back.
And as for me, I feel nothing but shame for our undeserved victory, And the undeserved abuse given by my fellow fans.
My muse is like an excitable dog. It catches sight of totally random things and starts yapping and running around and wagging its tail and WILL NOT STOP until I write a poem about it.My poetry is sometimes based on personal experience and sometimes on other things. Aside from that, I enjoy video games (My favourite game series is Mass Effect) and the popular television show My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.
She was four and I was six. We held hands and ate pixie stix. The big head little girl whom followed me around the corner. Soon we became friends. We held hands with skin like bricks. I cleansed her hands
The game of love Some play with other hearts Yet they end up alone without excuses And when they realize they lost their whole lives Time cannot go back and fix the mess And so they go looking for another
She wants to be remembered, A chant, a whisper, a name, She thinks to herself that if she really shut her eyes, Would the world notice she is gone? All the she hears are raindrops against the roof The rustling
Space is occupied by space, strength and vitality, a sphere of activity where space is shaped. The mind is preoccupied by thought, identification of process and an abstract concept of time represented and labelled. Mind is a reflection of past,