There is something foreign in my mouth
A tongue that is mine and not mine all at the same time
India is running through the blood in my veins but it is the Red Cross of George the dragon slayer who colours my tongue.
I want to rip it out, but then I will have nothing left
Want a transplant but what if my body rejects
And then I will be wordless and powerless
And hungry.

I speak English
I’m from England
My parents are British
This soil is in my fingernails
My waste is somewhere in the river Thames
But still they ask me where I’m from, where I was really from
Like I don’t belong
But my tongue tells a different story
I am a poet and a writer
Mastery of these Anglo words is my craft
And they fall of my tongue with finesse
Ricochet off the walls when I am angry
Dance on the wind when I am speaking to my Lord
It is not mine
But it is all mine
I have nothing else.

If only I could pluck out my tongue
Plant the seeds that should have grown 22 years ago
And watch them blossom
As my mouth becomes more of its own
And less of itself than it’s ever been
I am phenotypically black
A Brit born and bred
But India is running through my veins
And I just want to drink from her streams.

Anonymous: You're not. And your "poetry" isn't.

Oh wait, is this in response to something?!

My Twitter Musings from Yesterday


I feel like there needs to be more mutual chasing. We seem to be trapped in this awful predicament where we chase people who don’t want us.

There are people who love you and care for you and want you for you. Don’t ignore them because ‘they’ll always be there’. Cherish them.

We’re desperate to be loved. But we’re forever stepping on love’s head to get what we think love is.

Don’t let the day come when there’s nothing there for you to step on and you fall flat on your face.


“In classic Greek and Roman mythology, it was always the strongest and smartest who reached God and the divine. Bellephron and Achilles and Odysseus and Perseus: they were rippling with muscles or huge brains or special powers.But Scripture, in a complete reversal of human values and stereotypical strength, shows that God pursues maybe the weakest individual in the entire town of that day: Mary Magdalene, a mentally unstable woman. The one who others were writing off as a nobody, an outsider, an outcast.If this story were told in another Epic Myth – The two-ton stone would still be rolled over the grave, and God would say: “Move the stone and you will have access to me. Show me your strength.” And maybe a special “Chosen One” could roll the stone from the grave.Yet Mary Magdalene shows up and the stone is already removed. Which means, in a literal and metaphorical sense, that grace rolled the stone away. God had already done the work to reach His people, to reach the weakest person.We don’t need to move the stone to find God, but God moved the stone to find us. This is the Essential Heart of God and the Gospel.”

J.S. from this message (via jspark3000)


i always find myself writing the same line of poem.. 

that one about waking up with a hole in my chest. 

it doesn’t want to leave me.