We are forever…
We endured the bite of the flagellum,
And survived the blade of the guillotine.
A Broody Hen.
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We were taught to listen …
and then inhale – deep breaths – as if melody has an aroma,
Or the molecules of our oxygen are bonded with musical notes.
It comes uninvited like an unpleasant memory …it gets intense the more you try to suppress it…
It doesn’t knock the doors down ,it sips through the keyhole
like a wisp of odourless smoke…
before you know it, you’re engulfed by a dense cloud of angst
Suffocating and sweating.
Drowning in self pity and doubt…
Then its gone…
as quietly as it came
…leaving behind a pelter of vigorous palpitations and a frail bundle of your former self
Drained of all esteem and fatigued.
Read. wRite. Rhyme.
It was a terrifying realization that…
what doesn’t kill you,
can cripple you forever.
Broody Hen ( A narrative)
Nothing demands your endurance like a pit toilet,you have to hold on to get relieved. To avoid an excrement splash plunge,you have to hold on tightly to the walls so you don’t cave in with the equally dilapidated seat. While keeping your ears trained as antennas ,for privacy is never guaranteed .
You have to be physically fit for a pit toilet,in there you half crouch and half sit.
You have to be prepared to endure the smell of mixed,soupy faeces…clogging your nostrils; making your stomach churn with rippling nausea. The tickling agitation of thick ,green flies using your skin as egg dumpsites or…mating platforms.You can’t even breathe through your mouth for the fear of what you might swallow .
In a pit toilet. You never get completely relieved. You rush in there to get rid of a stomach bug, and come out a host of an even more lethal bacteria.
Broody Hen [A Narrative]
My imaginary friend says : “Hi”
His name is Anxiety
When you see me fidget,it is because he tickles me. ©