Excuses

Life was never worth living, but living wasn’t my decision and non-existence isn’t an
option…
Excuses

Stopping more often than not because going costs more than I got… When thoughts of
dying in your sleep equates to freedom.
My poetry sounds
too young.

Excuses.

I neglect the fact that they’re supposed to not think I can do this.
I head straight to feelings of inferiority forcing me to then prove I’m not useless.
Forcing me to stand still in my movement.
Tell me.
How does one prove their worth in a sea of abuse when we all choose to abuse this life
that we’re living life until we just lose it?
I speak what I know,
you can call it the truth

but the truth is I really can’t do this

And I talk too fast.

Excuses.

I neglect to remember to head back to my roots when I do this.
See my speech often picks up on my father’s Jamaican influence
and before I realize what I’m doing
I’m ‘lost in a sea of patois and I can’t seem to get through this.’
Dred head and they think I’m a fool
But it’s more foolish to mistake me for stupid

Excuses

Said because of the color of my skin I’m not supposed to speak truth
More

excuses

You see I was never told that I could make it through this.
But who is?

Show me the one who skips through life and I’ll show you a life that was never worth
living.
This love was never worth giving unless it can somehow keep going when my heart just
ain’t in it.
Hold up,
I’m not finished.

Excuses.

My poetry just is not polished enough,
I am living proof that despite what was given to you by the abusive

It is still possible to pull yourself together and push through this.

From sitting in classrooms thinking I am stupid
To sitting alone realizing I am useless.
My words ruthless with surroundings clueless all the ideas I have are foolish
Its not my fault all my muses are the cruelest.

Excuses, though.

If I just had one more moment I’d know just what to do
Because in hindsight my vision is perfect.
If I could go back to the very beginning,
When hardship was far off in the distance I’d convince myself right then to give in.

Excuses.

I’m choosing to excuse myself for this attitude
You know my mother told me that out of her five kids I’m the rudest.
Ma I usually don’t do this, but today I’m agreeing with you

Excuses

Please excuse this.

My poetry is too selfish.
Yelling and embellished, my only excuse is that I forget I’m supposed to be helping.
I’m enclosed in forced choices.
Impede my right to ring right in your ears.

I tried to wipe my frustration off by not giving it all to you
And this just proves I don’t know what I’m doing.

My poetry wastes too much time,
I’ll stop believing I’ll still be writing in a few years.
I never listen.
Excuses.

Correct me if you start seeing parts of my past in my present movements, my moving
essence losing momentum pushing through the dusty battle fields of confusion, missiles
blaze fast destroying no less than your politics do.
I don’t think fast enough. Unequipped I stay dormant sarcastic in shifts, I can’t amuse
myself.

Excuses.

They told me I wouldn’t make it.
Said Mercedes

you can never taste greatness

You can only witness it
But I wrote this poem anyway
Dreaming of instances perfect enough to exist in them.

Knowing that with each word i absorb, i redirect intensely.
Engulfed in nostalgic riptides ears bleeding, hurt immensely.
Falling traces of when i had any shred of faith left.
I’m excusing my own self-loathing.
Nothing you canm say will hurt me worse than the damage I’ve caused.
Raging and internalized-
I still dont pause in the shadows of your excuses.

I find peace inside these pieces.
Still trying to prefect the speech
But I write words that leave me speechless.

In the end I’m glad if I touched a few souls, but I just do this for me.
You see artists don’t like to admit that we’re selfish.
But I pick up that pen because I just can’t help it
and I share hoping I can better than I was last time.

Sparkle just a little bit brighter than my last shine

Heart in your chest steadily beating though your time feel like it flatlined

Excuses.

Go ahead and tell me again why I wasn’t good enough.

We’ll just use it as another one of our great excuses to go…

write a new poem.

 

Tru Kwene started seriously writing poetry when she was 17 years old, in her last year of high school. She took her skills with words to the streets when she became a youth organizer that same year with Teen Empowerment and began organizing peace promoting events in the Boston area. You can find her on YouTube, and in Boston, supporting as many local artists and mics as she can.

Language only carries the power we give it. Life is valued in emotion. Will Weir is a human trying to reach happy. He appreciates your listening.