Friday, September 12, 2014

Mamalogue - 101

Poetry, Sep '14
By owais

I cannot be
like your other sons:
those that live
to consume.
To desire,
to conquer. 
To want,
to get. 
To top,
to orgasm.

I am like you, Mother.
I serve.
I give.
I love.

I guess,
I am not a man. 
Am I a woman?
Or, am I
a tree?

I claim
that I am like you. 
Yet, unlike you
all my life, I have wanted.
Aspired. Fancied. Thirsted.
Craved. Wished. Asked. Begged. Itched. Yearned.
Hankered. Hungered. Coveted.

But, like you,
I have never been wanted.
Like you,
always called ‘dirt’.

Or, if I was wanted,
like you,
never acknowledged,
never accepted,
never rejoiced
in being wanted.

If I were a man,
I was really an impotent one.

If I were a woman,
I was really a sterile one.

If I were a tree,
I was really an unproductive one.

for myself.

No, Mother,
I am not like you.

I am NOTHING like you.

I am a fool, an idiot
that served, yet never
did it with pride:
despite being one that
made men come,
and women explode.

One that did it all,
yet never said,
to my partner in my room, my life, my heart
with my actions,
nor with my words;
not even, with my thoughts: that
I am a slut.
A hussy. A harlot. A whore. 
to make you happy.

owais calls himself the ‘sucker for love’ – for knowingly, he not only trusts, but lives on that rainbow which does not actually exist.