A Wisp of a Filthy Dung, Dirt Stayed as Recess in an Ingrown Nail
The loams are wet for today's season,
The trees, evergreen,
The hope of future laid for the next generation,
Young ones, girls and boys.
Let there be no more mines,
This is our land
Not your scavenging pursuit
What is new?
My back crouches and my head sinks above the soil,
I toil, until the fine thorns of the better land digs deep into my nails
My nails are clay brown, my bones are frail,
Yet day by day, I crave a life beyond
I think of better life,
I think I deserve a standard comfort.
But everyday life will get bleaker,
If my wages are meager.
If such is the case I won't wonder,
Of what those opportunities could mean
To a hands that now shake,
From nerves, not despair,
Just exhaustion.
Maybe after a day's toil, I'll shake my slipper,
Put all my burdens behind when I enter the antechamber
Replace those slippers with a cleaner footwear
Meant for my own haven inside my four walls
Walls made of weaved bamboo,
Nay, I romanticize none.
I don't live inside a beautiful and carved bamboo,
Only a four walls with thin anti-reverberators
In my whole life, I embarrass my neighbors
Inside this gray, lifeless, concrete walls.
I will imagine a better future
And I will perhaps dream the barest comfort
But perhaps envy is the sole enemy,
If one can only be content
But what is content if the self is left unrealized?
It's disappointment we meet half-way if we do,
No risk, you didn't even try,
You just get on convincing this dogma to you.
I will only sigh with content if I'll never have to see disappointment
Half-way, greeting me a "hi, how do you do?"
Like every other time
Gnaw the image of it on my mind
Until a shadow shall cast a burden again behind my back
Pressed me into a sad, quiet end
Bullshit.
I'm only twenty-four, not fifty-nine.
I've got long way ahead,
I never lost my sight.
Later is the pity party,
If plunder is ever purged.
Never, but I'd rather see a hole of progress
Than a meandering, meaningless end
Going through the circles,
Here in our living hell.
I'll never picture myself of what young woman I will be,
Hopefully, it wouldn't be a Sylvia Plath wannabe
I've cursed enough, I've done grave errors that I speak ill of people
Among the many of my tactless complaints, shows ignorance, shows stupidity
Dismissed by respect, by regard or even by mere impression.
I'll never see how should a young woman tread her path,
Will she go anywhere but back?
Back where she once was?
Will it be outgrown? I hope not.
Will I consider this moment, soon enough a life once lived?
I truly pray to God, such sentiments is for a naught.
But I see myself way past than the present me,
Stuck, regressed and have those inner child healed
If I ever did,
Maybe I could sigh with my contentment and relief
And maybe I'll hope a dream,
Fresh as it was like when everything is a childlike wonder
Even a sunrise is a magic in itself,
While I bike in the misty morning weather.
