Daddy by day(#poetry)

During the day,

I called you Daddy,

The man I swam with,

The man I swung with,

The man that taught me how to hike,

How to ride a bike.

I keep recalling how I used to anticipate your return home when the day was done,

And mourn your departure when it was turning dawn,

How I used to wonder what you would bring me on my birthday,

About where you would take me this Sunday.

When mom whipped me,

I remember screaming “Daddy save me”,

Even when I knew my words and your ears could not connect,

Simply because you were probably in another continent,

The funny thing is that even then, you were my superman,

And I was your number one fan,

Racing into your arms as you returned at dusk,

If only I knew then it was only a mask.

To me, you were the perfect father,

But it was only when it hit night that I saw that from the truth, I couldn’t have gone further,

I remember crying on my bed,

As for the first time I heard the harshest words ever said,

My brother standing next to me,

Telling me it would be okay even when I could feel the vibration from his knee,

That day, it was only an argument over his tuition fees,

But it turned out to be the genesis of nights filled with my mother’s pleas.

And just like that, you became the main star of my every nightmare,

My new definition as to why the world wasn’t fair.

I remember hoping that it was not you but some sought of imposter,

That had taken the liberty to play our home’s scariest monster,

Because I knew, my dad wasn’t like this,

I mean, he couldn’t possibly do anything to harm his queen or his princess,

Or could he?

How far fetched from perfect could our family portrait be?

I couldn’t find those answers until one day with my own eyes see,

That the screams that I heard were merely misplaced melody,
To prove to the word that you were not at all bad,

And that you were definitely not the one that made momma sad.

Peeping through the corridor,

It felt like my eyes had turned to some sought of broken door,

Never to be closed,

Leaving my poor heart ready to be robbed.

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Crooked love (#poetry)

I remember the first time I saw your handwriting,

You had mispelt my name on a paperback and coated it in highlighting,

I remember thinking that your teacher was probably my neighbor’s Hen,

Teaching you to scratch and scribble hoping that something beautiful would appear under your pen,

Even still, looking at that paper I felt a tag on my heart,

At that moment it felt like myself and my misery were centuries apart.

Cheesy, I know,

But I don’t think you would ever realize how your mispelt misfelt words at that moment had made my world glow,

I remember opening the note with such care,

Afraid that in carelessness not only it but my heart would tear,

Smiling like I had just seen Santa climbing down my chimney,

Probably looking to an outsider like I was silly.

I remember trying to make sense of the words,

I have to admit, your spelling skills and handwriting were out of this world,

But then again, we were only in nursery,

But every year to me remains an added anniversary,

Anyway, I was finally able to understand the puzzle,

Then again, maybe I didn’t as I stared at it puzzled.

“Will you be my girlfriend” it read,

Or at least that’s what I made out it said,

I flipped the note over,

Confirming the addressed so I could pass it over,

I mean; I’m sure it not me,

Not the fat pig nerd looser that was just a wanna be.

You had signed ‘secret admirer’,

But that didn’t make things any clearer,

No, it only exalerated my fear,

As I felt my eyes soaking up with tear,

‘Maybe this is another prank’,

Every other idea in my head having gone blank.

Probably seeing the dilemma in my eyes,

You rushed to me at first break instead of hanging out with the other guys,

Wrapped your small hand around mine,

Smiled and said, ‘I love you but for now being friends would be just fine’,

I’m pretty sure you had no idea what those words even meant,

But they sure did the crack on my heart mend as I finally had a friend.

Unreal as it seems, years later when your eyes and mine barely even meet,

When your heart for another princess now beats,

When I am now a feminist,

And believe that Prince charming does not exist,

I still hold on to that crooked love,

Cause it’s probably the only one I will ever have.

My Reflection (#poetry)

For fifteen years,

I treated you like my mirror,

Your eyes were the reflection,

I hoped through which I could see the world’s affection,

And as years went by it seemed that the magnification only got nearer.

At night I could hear you whisper into my ear,

Your breathe still wreaking of beer,

“Don’t walk around in shorts,

They go around displaying your ugly spots,”

And like a muse under your spell,

I couldn’t help but the truth from your words tell.

From the words on your lips my walls of confidence fell,

As testament that I trusted you enough for my soul to you sell,

I hated myself,

I know because if I was on sale, I wouldn’t have picked me out of that shelf,

All I could see were layers of sins I needed to repent,

Scars and holes that screamed a bit more than just a dent,

I saw you as my answer, heaven sent,

To give me the message that even to God, I was not worth a single cent.

But that is the beauty of past tense,

The fact that I can look at things through a whole different lens,

That my scars can speak at my defense,

As proof that I have survived the worlds greatest bends,

That a big girl could also make the trends,

That my broken, doesn’t need any mends.

You called my spots ugly?

Guess what else has those?

The very leopards that keep man on his toes,

Or rather on his knees hoping that he wont meet her hungry.

So tell me, of what use are you to me now,

Why should my pride at your feet bow?

When I found another mirror,

That makes my reflection compare to nothing finer?

But since I have a heart,

I will give you the honor of sitting on the front row,

As the pictures you painted of me filled with dirt,

I place a smile on my face, look at you and into the fire throw,

Not because I want to prove anything to you,

Just to show you that I am no longer the slave you once knew.

Being a girl(#poetry)

The day I was born was probably a rainy day,

Otherwise, how else could I explain how my ‘manners’ got washed away?

“Stop pulling your dress up.”

Words I had heard a gazillion times as a toddler but they never seemed to add up,

I mean, why doesn’t anyone tell my brother that he cant walk around bare chest?

How about those boys by the river who don’t seem to understand that private parts are just that: ‘private’, why wouldn’t anyone get them dressed?

At times, based on the look my mother gave me when I questioned, it seemed she wasn’t sure whether she gave life to a child or a primate.

As she toiled everyday to explain that the difference was not only based on the features of a mate,

Her uncertainties seemed to graduate with me as I grew up,

The question turning, shifting and changing like gears,

As days passed by,adding up to my years.

“Cross you legs right”,

“Wear heels to compliment your height”,

“Don’t pick your nose in plain sight!”

Words I had heard so many times I could recite,

Yet by then my curves hadn’t chanted every scavenger into site.

When that unfortunate event happened,

She was more than glad to usher me into ‘womanhood’

The one place in the world I hoped not to visit but now live in,

Her attention started to switch from scolding me to teaching,

If you ask me,it sounded more like a preaching,

Not optional and not to be questioned,

The only difference was that there was no alter call,

If there was, I’d probably not have spent so much time and money at the mall.

I have to say; at this point I got confused,

‘Why is it we spend so much money trying to please people she once abused?’

Then again, I stand accused,

None of these female customs got me amused,

As a matter of fact, I considered it all colonialism,

Especially teaching me that I was born to please another organism.

Teaching me that I am best behind the confides of a kitchen,

Well, for me it felt like being a key chain,

So close to the keys of freedom yet being tied up.

”You are destined to get married and bring me grandkids”,

Well that sounds a lot like the fate of seeds,

To grow ,get fertilized and reproduce,

I think my existence could be put to better use.

Is it so wrong that I do not live to witness my first kiss?

That I don’t daydream of him telling me to put my lips like ‘this’?

That my concentration is on getting A’s,

And not on finding the perfect guy to take me to some fancy place?

That a guy is my best pal?

If so, I guess you and I have a different definition of what it means to be a girl.

Poetry Contest

https://kaylaannauthor.wordpress.com/author/kaylaannauthor/

Are you a poet? Do you enjoy writing poems until your heart is sore or until it soars?

Well, I happen to LOVE reading poetry so I would like to hold a poetry contest! Read the rules and prizes below!

Rules:

To be eligible for this competition you must be subscribed to my page (i.e. following and receiving emails.) Not subscribed yet? No worries! Go to my home screen and click FOLLOW (I’ll receive a notification when you do :D)
Leave your poem or a link to your chosen poem in the comments below.
I will be using a point system to chose the winner:
You will receive 5 points automatically for subscribing (everyone must subscribe to be eligible)
You will receive another 2 points for sharing the contest on your your own blog and linking back
Your poem will be rated on a 1-10 scale based on creativity, structure, content, and overall awesomeness. While we are near the holidays, you do not have to write a holiday poem (although you are welcome too as well!)
Technically someone can still win without sharing my contest, but sharing would provide additional points for any poems that are tied.
Because of the expected high volume of submissions, please keep your poem at a reasonable length. For sure no poems 3 pages +. If you have any questions regarding length, feel free to ask in the comment section!
You can only submit one poem per blogger.
Last date for submissions is November 20th!
Prizes:

The WINNER of this poetry competition will received two things
FIRST, their poem and their blog/bio will be featured on my site. This will be a great chance for you to get some publicity on another blogger’s site.
SECOND, they will receive a copy of The Dazed Starling. This journal contains poetry and short stories (one of which is mine!)
Dazed Starling

So get writing, because I cannot wait to start reading!

I saw you last night (#poetry)

Picking up my pen,

My hands led me to writing your name,

Starting with a dear and ending with a comma,

And at that moment I knew I was about to write a letter,

A letter that if formal, its subject would be; I saw you last night.

If not, I’d probably start it with; I do not want to start a fight,

Either way, I was sure I was about to write you a letter.

One that would probably describe finely the ache in my chest,

I am no doctor but I am sure I need no test,

I know is that the pain I am feeling right now is a means of my heart’s feelings to attest,

A symbol of what I felt as I watched the end of a story that had yet began,

A story that, in my head, had a heading, plot, character, beginning and end,

Unfortunately, this amazing story can never get to be acted out, remaining just a thought in my head as I can only be a friend.

I would probably write that I may have rushed from my house last night,

Dressed in a trouser a bit too tight,

Heels making me a bit too tall even for my height,

My feet wobbling all over the place,

As I raced down the cold street to the one place I hoped I’d find answers, the one place I hoped I’d find grace,

I had rehearsed this night over and over in my head a galaxy of times,

The night I was supposed to tell you what was on my mind,

More like what was scorching through the flesh of my heart,hoping that these sentiments were shared.

Instead, from right across the street, for the first times in my life,I felt scared.

Scared to have lost something I didn’t even have.

So childish of me, I know, but I have to ask;

Did you feel like your head was spinning around the orbit of her tongue every time she said your name?

Did you feel as if fire was burning through your veins every time she placed her hand on you in innocent laughter?

No matter how tormenting this may be, I have to ask, what did her lips taste like as yours met hers in silent assault?

Did you at any point at that moment,

Think of this little girl that lived up the hill,

Or were you too consumed by the moment my ache to feel,

I would probably have to stop writing at that point,

Place my pen aside as I go in search of the closest joint,

Exploring everything and anything that bore with it the potential to make me forget that I saw you last night.

Anything to take me back in time,

To make yesterday just an ordinary night.

Dear Mr Brown (#poetry)

Dear Mr Brown,

I have always loved the colour brown,

A representation of mother earth and all in it, right?

It may have not been my favourite colour;

Considering it also represented dark aspects of life,

But it worked just fine,

A little dirt never stopped white from being bright,huh?

Well, the truth is, it did.

It stopped it from being bright enough,

Turned it into a touch of dim, or should I say cream?

I didn’t know that then.

I didn’t know it just like each and every other angel that experimented rolling in the mud.

I didn’t know how many stains on my cloth you would add.

I cant blame you, though,

My mother warned me about colours like you.

Don’t worry, she also spoke about the color black: “Angels should love bright colors, not dark.”

But right now, I want to say thank you, Brown.

Not for being my favorite color, but for letting me see what drowning in you would feel like.

For letting me know that not all angels have to be perfect.

For making me see how far from the truth that myth is.

For making me see what the mirror never let me see;

That being flawless was never the definition of perfection,

But it was just a sign that your life was filled with hallucination.

I’m glad I met you Brown number nine,

And, no, this time, the pleasure is all mine.

Love,

Another victim of your touch.

https://karegithinji.wordpress.com/

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