I’ve never thought myself to be exceptionally good at writing poetry. I believe my strongest points are in writing stories and possibly in prose (well so I have been told).
But from time to time, I guess I feel like I have bitten by a bug that causes me to make an attempt at poetry. Hopefully at some point in the near future I’ll be able to scribble out one as complex as those of the masters that demand clear and deep thinking and the ability to read in between the lines to understand the content. But for now, this is what I’ve got.
I wrote this ages ago and found it only recently while I looked through notes I wrote down here and there. I completed it and here it is.
Kumbaya; at my lowest moments.
I felt it.
I endure it.
But I could not take it.
It burnt every part inside me,
from my gut to my throat,
like a bile boiling and bubbling over.
It beat against my chest,
making my heart race,
like a hollow drum
but one so old and worn,
on the verge of being torn.
It made my body shake,
made it hot, made it cold,
numb and spent,
hungry for what I could not provide.
It consumed me,
leaving a looming darkness.
I was uncomfortable in my own skin,
wanting to rip it off,
needing to rip it off,
to be free,
to find the colour my world had lost.
It was a parasite,
it was a demon,
tortured my body,
ruined my soul,
fed on my spirit,
and never let me go.
It reduced me to nothing.
I was gliding through life,
without notice of time or space,
as it drifted past me.
It kept lunging at me,
always with greater force,
and then it left me torn, broken, near lifeless.
And with every breath left in me,
With all I had left,
Through the valley depths of my despair,
I dragged my weak spirit
from the abyss
to the silent, soft glimmer of pure light in the distance,
that shone at the peak of my mountains.
And I reached out to touch it.
For a moment, I could feel its warmth
that moment, fleeting as it may have been,
was all I had,
was all I needed.
Mama Africa; strong and resilient and so are her children. Because of this, depression is something that is least spoken about in these parts. We are all supposed to be strong, not just physically and mentally but emotionally too. Very few people speak about their emotions in such context and when they do, they are often told to “shake it off and move on”. We are given dose after dose of “tough love” and rarely stop and breathe and assess what’s really going on. Speaking about depression would be brushed off as silliness or a passing phase of sadness.
I cannot fully explain what I was going through when I wrote this. But one thing is for certain; I felt beaten and quite dead inside. I was at a terribly and dangerously low moment.
For all those who have ever felt a deep sense of despair, my telling you that you are not alone isn’t sufficient and I doubt it will help mend your broken spirit. But hold on, because YOU MUST. There is a greater story to write. Hold on, because it is never the end. Don’t let it be the end.
The “It” in this little poem maybe different for you. It may be one thing today and then something else tomorrow yet still something you’re battling with. Regardless of what your struggle may be, there is hope. There is no pit that God can not pull us out of. There is no situation in which, if we ask, He will not give us strength to match and even to counter attack.
The Lord appeared to us in the past saying, “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving kindness. I will build you up again and you will be rebuilt, O Virgin Israel (replace with your name). Again you will take up your tambourines and go out to dance with the joyful.
There is a perfect hymn for these low moments. Here’s just one verse of “What a friend” that brings me the greatest amount of comfort;
What a friend we have in Jesus,
all our sins and griefs to bear
What a privilege to carry,
everything to God in prayer.
O what peace we often forfeit,
O what needless pain we bear.
all because we do not carry
everything to God in prayer.
May God bless your month of May. May His favour be over everything you do.
Hold on, because YOU MUST.
There is a greater story to write.
Hold on, because it is never the end.
Don’t let it be the end.