Tools of violence

Identity violence

Symbolic violence

Communication violence

Historic violence

Revisionist violence

Repetitive violence

Infantilising violence

Nostalgic violence

Communication violence

Prejudiced violence

Tiring violence

Destructive violence

Sexual violence

Gendered violence

Religious violence

Spiritual violence

Class violence

Linguistic violence

Colourist violence

Male violence

White male violence

Co-opting violence

Toxic violence

Co-opted toxic violence

Ideological violence

Paternalistic violence

Patriarchal violence

Symbolically patriarchal violence

Promotional violence

Just violence

Violence violence

Tiring violence

Too tired coz I’m broken and it’s the result of all the above and more violence

Mental violence

Inferred violence

Implicit violence

Bright-eyed violence

Broken souls violence

The once you had bright eyes but then you got co-opted and are stuck but still need peeps and I get it but don’t you get that I get it, so why you gotta erase the stuff we excavate and stop us entering and flinging open the doors-no revision check, not open the doors break all these fracking symbolic capitalistic colonial walls – so that we can all evolve together and your tired eyes can weep and rejoice in celebration with us all, bold beautiful and brave and bound to the forward March of completing our shared ancestors abolitionist principles and journeys to create a new fair fresh deprogrammed society so we keep being we and us, and you and me, happy and free together… urgh! Gah! For f***! *sigh* but you can’t and that’s violent, violence.

So instead here we stand. Ina pyramid and I keep trying to educate and create and collate and collaborate while we survive and you thrive but I don’t even cry coz I’m proud inside that at least someone who got one part of our ancestral spirit souls good side to the table where it’s all about whose there to dine, and whose outside… not about our fellow people who die and are also pushed towards pipelines to die. Whether quickly or slowly, that’s for us all to see with our eyes.

I’m too tired to speak, so I’ll leave it to that… and sleeps for the night.

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Oh sickening spirit.. Leave me.. I beseech thee.

I see a spirit so independent and true,Fighting within fortunes so similar

A life path through the challenging bush,

But dissimilar too, the essence of our awkward roots,

a legacy that we inhabit,

yet to given

To be seen to take fruit.
This wandering mind,

anguishing in hells your imagination could barely reside in,

Your powerful strides strapped to an ever-questioning mind, dissatisfied by seemingly having nothing good to find.

Our certainties gone, withered and lost, the day we forsook thankfulness, gave up the greatest gift given by God, this here our deep love.

That now flows ever-present, causing doubtfulness and depression,
As we work, in wakefulness without the others presence.

Incapable to come to terms with our shattered brittle spirits.

To you your road and me my own.
One should have learned by now,

There can never be a companion on this sickeningly septic journey, in which even an 11-year old me has been,

But whose horrors you have neither heard of nor seen.

Goodbye my love. Goodbye my dream.

As I always said you must leave me.

NaBloPoMo #16 – Surrogate #15

A melancholic sadness,
A softly, softley wide awakening,
Eyes open,
Iris’ flex,
Soaking it all in,
blurring filled with internal rain.
Thunderous.
Shaking uncontrollably as we meet,
As we sit, speak, meet, disagree.
Cut deep and hurt, seemingly eternally.
A life is a life,
Flows from low to highs.
The world is shattered and shredded with incessant strife.
I have no place to hide,
I have no strength to cry,
I have no voice to verbalise.

I die as We die.

Type.

Type, type type,

type, type, type,

down here I sit,

down here I write.

I wonder if I’ll get to talk to you tonight?

I’m getting better, I’m fighting fitter,

as I sit to re-paint our shared grey-green picture.

The blue-sky still eludes me,

For I can’t get out of my duvet,

acceptance has entered my heartbeats,

but the memories of you run too deep,

my blood hungers for your heat,

thoughts of us are seldom weak.

I say I will pay them not an ounce of my time,

Was going our separate ways a crime?

When will every tendril of affection die?