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3/5/2024 2:11:50 PM Kufre Daniel Posts: 2	Bitter Baby ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.’ – Jeremiah 1:5 What a bleak black-white it must have been Observed in the dull blue of a doctor’s office. Three tormenting lines And the oblivious innocent displeaser, But a boy kicking in the belly of the beholder. To be or not to be? Is not always a question. Born by blunder and fickleness of conception, He must have entered the world crying for two– He and his mother– For perhaps she forgot in the joy of the moment, But the boy will always remember; It will always poke at his manly pride– To be a son and be wanted a daughter. And thus it began. At that time, when bitter boy was bitter baby. At that time, when to cry was to live, And the tears brought no shame. And what a reason he had! This wailing babe Arrested from his home cut open. Angry at the lights he arrived; Appalled by the night he became. Alas! The world was worse than womb. Acquainted with abundance, the bitter babe cries As he yearns with the rest of the world. ‘Another?’ he asks and no one answers, And in time to ask will be crime. Alas, to be human is to want. Angelface has just discovered And it fusses, precious cherub displeasured. At that time when want became greed. At that time when sorrow became selfish. At that time and that time only, truly – Bitter boy was born. But how can one claim to be bitter Bearing a burden that everyone shares? Because if to live is to suffer then… Bitter is barely worth the word – Barely a story to tell. But worse never made bad better. Blood doesn’t seal wounds dry, But it does. Brandish your hurt in the face of your audience. Brand your slights the bane of your essence. Because in doing so you might discover Blessings in burden-sharing. Bare your back to the world. Boast of your stripes – Biggest lashes, smallest cuts – Boast all the same, Because hurt is hurt, bitterest boy. Before you write yourself a tragedy for another, Believe in your burdens. Turn to the mirror and Confront your punisher Called for a purpose. Claimed at birth – agent of… Certainty eludes me. Crippled ears muddle the message. Called to what? Called? I was. Called beloved by my mother. Called a genius by my teachers. Called companion by my sister, Called a traitor by childhood friends. Calls that fell on stubborn ears. Can I claim to be what I didn’t hear? Conversely, are men claimed by names? Cut to shape by callous tongues? Captivated by spoken curses, fleeting praise? Conversations give us names. Countless souls are claimed by words. Called? ‘Don’t forget’ my mother named me. Don’t forget! Decreed with every summon of this bitter child. Don’t forget his sullen eyes. Don’t forget his sombre smile. Don’t forget that darling day ‘Don’t forget’ dared to wail. Don’t forget — a cynical order — Darkly different from ‘remember’. Don’t forget means don’t let go. Don’t embrace. Don’t hold on. Detach the sentiment from childhood experience. Draw inspiration from its distant woes. ‘Don’t forget’ my mother named me. ‘Don’t forget’ so I didn’t. ‘Don’t forget’ so I hold my grudges; Dreading trials already passed, Dagger, pen, poised in hand Drawing blood from sins recorded, Dying my papers borrowed black. ‘Don’t forget’ my mother named me Don’t forget what, mother? Even now, I don’t know much All this before ‘ABC’. At least I learnt it quick, So before any of my peers, I was babbling D. And maybe this is fate, or fate invented – That I have no story but the words to tell it
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3/25/2024 8:50:09 PM Ryan Blackborough Posts: 4	wow! That was amazing.
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