Hey lovesss!
I’m excited to announce that apart from writing weekly poetry, I will also be featuring curated poems by other writers. I feel honored to be able to do this, and overly excited all in all.
Today’s poem is by a friend I love dearly. She has so much to give to the world, and in her own words is “a 50 kg mass flying in the center of a dust storm, trying to write poetry“.
A poem for the brother (and a poem for a younger me)
You could’ve called me a fool
when I was twelve
and I would’ve believed it
I would’ve tied those words
to my canvas shoes
and walked around all day
with them
until I tripped
and fell
and proved you right
You could’ve pointed out
all the things that were
wrong with my face
and it would’ve been easy to believe.
At twelve
I did not understand,
walked around with a false sense
of bravado
and pretended the words people said
didn’t hurt me.
At twelve, you were supposed to
behave a certain way
At eighteen, you were supposed to know
how to cook given types of food
If you didn’t know how to do those set things by their given age limits –
oh no.
The girls were growing out their hair
by eighteen
and going places
without feeling scared.
Maybe I shouldn’t be 21
if strange faces in huge crowds
still unsettle me.
But my brother is turning twelve soon.
And I want to tell him
that slow growth is still growth
and you don’t have to force yourself
to rush at the same pace everyone else is going.
You can be happy with your beyblades
and your rollerskates.
You can make it to the moon.
–Kevinu Kannao
I hope this poem tickle the parts of us struggling to wrestle, and remind us that ‘slow growth is still growth’.
Gigantic love sealed with prayers,
Seku
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