poetry

To My New Friends (from an MK)

There is not enough time.
There is never enough time
From the moment we meet
I am thinking of the end; maybe
Because I have done this before
I’ve done this too many times before
And every ending is too soon so
There are two choices in response to that truth.
Courage or cowardice, love or fear,
Connection or solitude.
I have never claimed to be courageous,
But I’m trying.
Dear God I’m trying and it’s harder
Than I thought it would be…

There is not going to be enough time
For me to love you in
And the coward in me says don’t try
But the image of God in my soul
Says otherwise.
So I’m trying.

by Ghanaperu

By CulTuremiKs, ago

(Don’t) Keep Your Distance

I know about this,
this dark stillness illuminated 
only by a single streetlight.
orange glow over everything
and we try
to forget
that we ever cared.

I know about this, 
this quiet loneliness surrounded
by unending pavement.
dotted lines marking the way
to nowhere
just like
every other time before.

But
rewind, lighting fast, 
because this hasn’t happened
yet

Today is the beginning, 
shy smiles across the room
before we know anything
and I want to tell you,
I am a prophet and love
always hurts in the end but please,
please don’t
keep your distance.

by Ghanaperu

By CulTuremiKs, ago

Eve Of Bittersweet

I’m leaving my bags packed
just in case I need to run away
but I won’t tell you that – it’s easier
if you never have to know
about impermanent.

The demons sound like prophets 
now, and I’m living out
every word they speak in slow
motion, suitcase handle in my fingers
like a lifeline to freedom.

Do you know what I mean
when I say I don’t want to 
be alone?

I have traveled before
and I am not afraid
of losing myself to it, I’m 
not afraid of drowning in it.
No, it is breathing that
takes all the work; staying
that is so hard for me.

I will tell you a secret.
Sometimes, the airplane seats
feel like home, and I don’t 
want to ever leave them, sometimes
you aren’t worth unpacking my 
bags for and I’m not sorry, sometimes
I think drowning
would be easier.

You’re yelling, yelling 
that my life is not my own
that there is a value on it
and I’m wasting the currency, 
my life is not my own and I must
keep my hands off it.

Do you know what I mean
when I say I don’t want to
be alone?

Except
I don’t say it.

by Ghanaperu

By CulTuremiKs, ago

White Sand, White Skin, and African Friends

There was sand beneath
my feet, between my fingers,
slipping down through my hair,
dusting across my face.

She screamed, laughed, 
danced frantically away from
the edge of the sea-salt, 
terrified of the vast unknown.

Afterwards, we sat in the 
breeze and slurped warm
soda, dragging our fingers
through the sand on the 
wooden bench, pretending
we both belonged there; but
I was the only one who burned.

Years later, I stood at the edge
of the eternal sea, watched the
sun set, sliding beneath the water.
I imagined riding a boat, sailing
six thousand miles to the other 
edge, leaping off and finding her
still there, laughing hysterically.

It is always me
and only me
who burns – 
my skin, my friends
my history, my
everything

by Ghanaperu

By CulTuremiKs, ago