If i stay




“I’ll stay,” I promised myself. 
During this last quarter of the year, I somehow did sink into this humongous, yet deadly pit called writers’ block. For the longest time in my life, I used to imagine that failing to  write is a choice. That people just wake up one day and decide that they wont be writing for the next couple of days, weeks, months…Well, that can be true, but for me, you guys know that I do write about emotions; my emotions; raw, unscathed. For the longest time, this platform has been the only escape I have had from this paper world with all its paper ingredients. Ultimately, the very world I was running away from caught up with me and corrupted me of the only space I had; my ability to write. From then, I felt like an observer; like suddenly i got transformed into this tiny, almost invisible creature that pays attention to every nitty-gritty aspect of everything else’s life but its’. I’ve had so much possible thought about anything i could possibly think about yet so little knowledge on how to articulate it. Suddenly, I had to draw back since I didn’t belong anywhere anymore. Even my mind didn’t feel like home anymore. My body; I felt like an intruder to it . I felt like I was allowing it to not feel like home, at least to me. My eyes; everything before it was gross. Dear self, am so sorry.

However, during the same period, I did read enough, and that’s a win for me. At least that’s what I tell myself. I did read enough to understand that I am a girl. That by being a girl, people tend to misjudge you. A LOT. And that’s okay because whose opinion is it anyways? That by being a girl, you are somehow equated to this puppet that barely knows about itself, its capabilities and the world that it lives in and all its hurt. All my life, I’ve always wanted to believe that people are good; that they were meant to be good. They may lead you on and make a fool out of you but at the end of the day, there is this tiny, almost nonexistent part of them that screams ‘good,’ and that’s the part I choose to live by. If you know me personally, then you know that as much as I am a staunch pessimist (which only applies to stuff about me and my entire existence Btw), I am this sweet, positive girl who believes that the world can be made a better place by choosing to see the good in everything. Now, on to this; I get a tattoo on my left rib area and suddenly my name is safest in everyone’s mouth. I show some little skin on some days and suddenly, am overly-sexualized. I cut my hair, and suddenly, I should love myself more. I become more available for you, and suddenly, I am easy. I skip classes to do some more important stuff and suddenly, I should be more concerned about my life. And all these can be tiring; crashing even, especially when am just trying to be me.

When one barely knows you yet all that descends from his dark, almost abandoned soul is pure negativity about your whole existence, then you have no option but to be silent because explaining oneself to such a vagrant soul is a waste of everything. You let him soothe his already pampered ego. ‘It is manly, let him go ahead and lie to himself,’ you tell yourself. You know, what we extend to others is quite a reflection of what we are on the inside. When we are full and enough on our own, our true intentions come out clean.Our main problem is that when we are fucked up, we want to build this numbness that harbors our lone, empty and hurting selves by trying to convince others that we are more of aliens than humans. And it can cause a snowball effect by getting transformed into how we relate to others, what we think of others and in how we treat others. Do you actually know how it feels like to talk and talk and talk but never at any given moment be able to get your point across? You don’t know. You don’t need to know. When you and I are black holes, you know that nothing can neither be replaced nor reclaimed; NOTHING. Not words; not thoughts; not facts; not even time. And even in times like these when I know that it could have been healthy for me to stay away, I promise to stay, but not to stay the same. You never got the last bit, did you?

______________the end ___________________

I love you guys so much. Stay true to yourself and never let anyone ever corrupt what is truly, really yours. Love and light, and Merry Christmas!!!


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I wasn’t there

Darling, let’s run. A storm is coming.”


Those are the words that, with a breathy explosion, came flying past my ear. Words that were almost enough to make me not turn my head; I didn’t. Looking at him, it hit me that his eyes were still his eyes; hazel, sparkling between their semi-pursed lids; eyes that any girl on earth could kill(an ego) for. I dead-eyed stared back at him. He did not know what that meant, did he? In no time, our eyes met and locked but he broke it off in a bid to help me to my feet.

Aren’t you afraid of the storm? It kills.” He muttered. Again, I was silent. I stood still yet tripadated on the inside. Standing there besides his innocent self backed by numerous ghostly clouds drooling on me felt like I was being cornered and trapped at the edge of the planet whose pity was embedded on nothing short of the promising future ahead of us; it wasn’t there. I was silent, not because I was clueless or that I was being a snob. Rather, I was silent because he simply couldn’t listen to his words. How do you run away from yourself? It is impossible. Hilarious even. That sounded stupid right?  I coughed out a chuckle or two then gazed his direction.

Looking at him, his vision narrowed to slits. Poor soul looked desperate. Desperate for information he hadn’t been able to milk from me over the years. I leaned forward to embrace him. Maybe that way, he would be able to figure out that all along, I have been the very storm he should be running away from with all his heart and might. Heart mostly. Did he not believe me when I said that over time, I’ve grown emotionally blunt;numb. Everything, GONE. He shouldn’t love me. He shouldn’t have loved me. I am a storm that kills him a little with every passing moment and God knows why he still holds on tighter with each passing day. And on days like those, even with that firm body to body grip, I died a little. On days like those, he lost me.

~i wasn’t there~

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Am sincerely grateful to everyone who has been checking on me and pushing me to write even when I have nothing to write about. You are the real ones. Cheers to promised stability (on my writing pattern) that never lasts longer than my hair strands. I love you all.

Pain’s multiple demands.

Today, I want to write about how losing you isn’t just painful; it is noticing that the world gets blurred by my tears every time I try to see it through any HD camera’s lens. It is taking eight shots of vodka in a row and wondering why I seem to forget about everything but your infectious smile. It is blinking back lemon-concentrated tears while sitting my last CPA paper, owning fidgety hands, reaching for answers that are farther from where you are. It is avoiding crowds and not picking calls because they all make me sick yet cannot take me an inch closer to where you went to. God, it is reminiscing of how passionate you were about photojournalism, like that day after work when we travelled for 3 hours to the lakeside just to snap that sunset view against the lake.

You see, all my life, I have always fancied superbikes. Since time immemorial, I  have always loved picturing myself as the lady who surpasses all V8s and Audi using my powerful two-wheel, until today when all I had was balancing tears at the sight of a motorbike. It is funny how I have been forced to unlove all the things I have held dear, isn’t it?  Like having to fake a grin every other time that I will be visiting my motherland when all I notice reeking from people’s eyes is volumes of how often they used to see us together. It is ironically hiding from the very world and its hurt that contains us; it is allowing the world to crush down on me yet all I do is watch in pretentious awe.

Today, I still want to write about how we’ve always dreamt of visiting Amsterdam and get to freeze time at the floating city through our powerful cameras. I still want to write, but today, all am forced to do is learn; learn how to unlearn some tactics that have made me come this far; learn how to be emotionally numb; learn how to be less depressed.I want to learn but all I have is faded tears with memories lurked on the other side of faded. Losing you may be bad, but tell me, what gets  worse than wishing  to not wish you were still here?


PS; Am writing this for my cousin Willy whose heart stopped beating a day ago after being involved in a road accident. Rest in Peace Willy.

He is worth more.

“He’s changed,” you’d say, staring blankly into space, perhaps searching for any trace of him that might have had chosen to stay.

You would look at yourself in the mirror; you are here again, but this time round, unlike the other times, you are here to pick out your flaws, one at a time.You always do so, just that this time round, you want to wear them on your collar and see if the person in the mirror is a people’s repellant. You want to know why, like a coward in the silence of the night, he waded through the echoes of the paper-frail walls that contain your life and found a way out of that mess.Well, it is not like you were begging him to stay.It is a choice.It is his choice. But leaving? Just fucking leave if you want to.Do not be like a rat that bites you, takes a nibble of your flesh, then blows it to soothe the pain; the effect; the outcome; his outcome.She does not need you to pamper her ego.Blow the fucking roof if you have to, then storm out and let the shambles fall and bury her.Do not worry if the debris will break her bones; you have already broken her entire life without even touching her.So what would broken bones mean to her anyway?You were hurting and at that time, he was kind enough to place band aids on the wounds, and when your wounds were almost healed, he came and carefully tried to pull them out carefully, one at a go.For the love of God, please, tell him to pull them out all at once.They are better done that way I swear.

Right now, you are drowning in a string of thoughts that tease you on their possibility of turning your intestines inside out; you are probably tasting your tears more often than you did his lips, dumping a bottleful of antidepressants in your gut, hoping that they would contain the occasional fits that you usually have when you stumble onto his picture in your drawer or when you come across that familiar cologne in the street.Right now, you want so badly to be anywhere else but in your mind.It is killing you and it is killing you, but do we really call it death if there was no life prior to it?Or is it really darkness when there was no light?Well, there was light, but it was more of a mirage:The closer you two seemed to get to it, the farther it would actually be, and from the top of its guts, it would scream, “catch me!” And you got tired.Tired of being in a limbo within a limbo.Tired of your mind playing mind games on you.Tired of his unpredictability. Tired of being tired.Tired of him being tired of you.

But darling, today, let me kid you not.The next time the paper-thin walls in your guts echo your pain on repeat, the next time you can’t seem to try to be anything but okay, the next time your lips semi-purse, silent in a frozen scream, let it hit you that he mattered and got tired of making that sink in you.Let it hit you that just like ladies, men too are precious beings who deserve mental care and affection.Men too get depressed, emotionally drained and physically worn out.Men punch the walls more emotionally than physically.Yes, they do.Let it hit you that in as much as he wanted to save(find) you, he needed to save(find) himself more.

..* the end*

Hey guys, am actually trying to gain consistency in my writing pattern but there is a lot going on that makes it quite hard, but all shall be well soon. Am working on consistency.cheers!

How okay is your okay?


 Are you okay?” He asked in a rather abject disquietude.My mind, for a minute or two, got bogged down in taking in each of the three words that just flew out of his mouth.Taking in those words tasted as bad going in as it did coming back up.My mind,eyes and even heart all went blank, or maybe they even closed.I.Don’t.Know.Why that question? Did my eyes fail to smile when my mouth did?They always did.I believe so.Or did the fire,the volcano that,for ages, has been building within the walls,my walls that harbour them,finally come out erupting out of its cages?Did I finally become an open book to him, that he can finally tell when am holding in tears?There was no time to answer any questions. Well, just like me and my heart, my mind was also scared, scared for safety.Scared for an ‘okay’ that we, me, my mind and my heart, had been holding onto for a forever.My little forever.

With my pen still glued on my book,I imagined that maybe he has been able to discover me through my writing. Through that little book I kept so close to my heart that to become soulmates, all we needed was a pair of rings and a ticket to Amsterdam.Yes, a separate ticket for a book to Amsterdam. Just Amsterdam. He may have also been able to question that I have quite a number of friends around me but it was hard for me to open up to them, and even if I tried to do so,the words wouldn’t come out right.My heart could keep telling me, ‘you are not talking about me,are you?’ Like emotions are not to be talked about.Hell, how do you even talk about things you feel?To me, emotions are meant to be felt, then harbored in the walls around my mind, then written unstoppably.Like you were born to feel and write.All your entire life,you’ve been feeling and writing, feeling and writing until it became the centre of your life; the axis your life spun around.For it is through writing and only writing that you can almost open up to people about your life without them really guessing that you are actually the subject. It is like telling them how broken you are without feeling needy, or setting all your fears and insecurities aflutter without being rejected.

Slowly, a streak of light peeped through the window and onto my book.And that is when it all almost made sense.Light gets in if and when it is only allowed in.It would struggle through the crevaces created and somehow,peep through the object that tried to shut it out.And that is what I have, through my writing, been doing.It is the only way that I have been able to cry through the letters without feeling the acid tears corrode my face, or quite opening up without feeling judged,or love so so deeply without expecting or by hurting without showing it out to the world.I am not an open book, but through my book, I have become open to him.And looking at my book, I realized that all along, my life story has been a real tearjerker and it made me almost comfortable in my purported okay.But now I  get to hear his voice.Oh.My.God.Nothing but that voice has ever made me almost safe to affirm that am okay;almost okay.


Because of you

But I swear I tried.Tried to understand you.To figure out what you could be searching for when you close your mouth and open your mind;your soul;your eyes.Well,am told that eyes are windows to one’s soul.True?Yes,maybe.So it means that by being right before you,your eyes fed your soul constantly with some thought of me.I have no idea of what that could be,but all I know is that it is something unknown to me;something worth searching for.

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And I swear I was tempted.Tempted to ask you why you never really cared to know me.Why I could give you a million reasons as to why you should get closer to me,only for you to hold onto that one reason that would make you take one step back.Why you seem disinterested in what constantly crosses my mind. Why,even after living,you have never cared to ask what I think of life.Why living seems to be my ultimate death sentence. Why I seem to force myself to live yet we all know that it shouldn’t be that way;I shouldn’t be forcing myself to survive. Why you don’t understand how it feels like to wear a mask beneath your skin and not on your skin;to be trapped in your own being. Why you don’t care to know the feeling of being caged in your own existence; your small imaginable self that has no place in this world,not even that soul-searching heart of yours.

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Then I swear I got compelled. Compelled to loosen the grip that the wreck I call my heart had on yours.Compelled to get rid of the person you thought I was;the person you convinced yourself I was;the person you wanted to see in me.Compelled, like forcing my inabilities up the hill,to just let it slide.Compelled to allow myself to be alone in the depth of my pessimism; alone in the darkness of my grief and alone even in my loneliness.Compelled to tell her that maybe,just maybe,she might be able to keep you longer than I tried to.

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I am aware that you may never read this article(you never believed that I could write;at least not air my thoughts about you in public),and I know that my English may be messier than your life,but I swear that because of you,I tried,was tempted then got compelled to write and read between the messy sprawled-out lines.Because of you,I tried,was tempted then got compelled to write,but this time round,not for you;at least not anymore.

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Hi,my name is Raisa and I write dark poetry pieces.Tell me what you think of this piece.Cheers!



If it ever happens…


If I ever dream again,assure me that they were all real;that I am reliving my greatest fear:YOU!..that I stayed awake for the heart that beat for another girl,the hands that created a symphony on my skin and lips that kissed me with a mouthful of evermores that tasted exactly like leftover hope sprinkled with shimmers of scorn;that your pet’s death killed a part of you,and I would love to think of it as the part of you that loved me,atleast;that I meant as much to you as sporadic rain on a flooded terrain,or a ray of light stricken directly to a blind person’s eye.What I am trying to say is that I want you to assure me that I am important, but not to you;never to you.

If you ever fall in love again,promise me that it will be love and not the loathsome nonesense that you made me believe it is;that your heart will finally give up on vagrancy and melt at the glide of your olive skin on someone else’s;that she will be beautiful, oh so beautiful that your pillows will be soaked with tears of joy and not the ones that made me almost drown in unending depression;that she will be beautiful in a way that you cannot separate ‘your next’ the person from the ‘nextness’ that comes with her;that her beauty will be some kind of a sealed version of perfection; unscathed and unscathable.Above all,promise me that you won’t hurt her as much as you did  me.

If we ever get to outgrow this,let’s pledge to our broken wings that our being will suffice;that there are so many people we could ethereally become and so why not let bygones be bygones?that we should stop pretending that the small problems do not exist since the devil lives in the details;that if it were not for the nitty-gritty,who knows if I could be out there smiling with my eyes till they squint,pressing my chest on yours till our hearts beat in unison,rhythmically;but since we overlooked our stings,I am right here right now writing about you,drowning in the river that my tears create and seing how vulnerable they make me look;and I don’t know if it hurts more or less sipping dry vodka that scorches my gut and makes me want to throw up,taking concentrated cappuccino that keeps me zoned enough to drive razor through my own skin,and only God knows that to get so much joy from seing my blood drip-drop to the floor,only you can come to a conclusion of what goes through my crude mind.

Hey readers..Tell me what you think…this is my first post.Feel free to share.