fuck u Exla. yeah. fck u.

they are salty, these my tears. Like my sweat, and as burning/irritating. but not really.

 they are cooler (cold) than my sweat these my tears. They don’t roll down in shiny beads all over secretive parts of my skin

 they drip in “tick.tick”  motion from within- like little rain-drops

they hit the ground in my head, sometimes rolling, extending farther to

 my chin.  And yet not even I can see them, for the party (pity) is ongoing but from  with in.

 I feel them, these my tears,

With my fingers, of both hands, i wipe my eyes. 

I know there isn’t anything there in,  still, i need to clear my view. 

 my vision has been  impared much longer than I should have let it and its only getting worse.

I need to see them for who they are. To excuse their melted fakeness only when i must. I need to see them for the scared, wimpy bastards that they are. To know and understand that a time comes, it always does, for them, when more than just one is too much to handle, too intimadating to fake-smile with.

And because they have no idea what to do, how to not plastic away, they act out, and pace up and down, and apologise for words unsaid, laugh about jokes made in bad haste.

I had a good 28hours. haven’t had a last night or a today. but somehow, some one, some people, thought it best to come and knock me about……………


4 Comments Add yours

  1. cb says:

    hey phoebe, it’s a beautiful weekend in uganda. i’m at the office working on a very interesting assignment and listening to the instrumental –the joy of ma lyf –by no hell 01

  2. antipop says:

    whoa! @cb, did you actually read this post?

  3. rockthis says:

    eh! you are one angry blogger! i hope this is a one off. who hurt you?

  4. DeTamble says:

    27th needs some help.
    New post at mine.
    Go read…NOW!
    Or else I shall no longer worship you…

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