In addition to blessing us with a powerful post, Omodiende has also been wonderful enough to share the following pieces.
SACCHARIN-TONGUED

the dying lie to us,
telling us that there will be a tomorrow,
knowing full well that there will not.
each lie, an act of kindness,
stabs years of bitter regret into our hearts
that only later fester and erupt.
if only we knew,
if we only knew,
if only we allowed ourselves to know,
we would not listen to those kind, sweet lies,
those lies that allow us not to cry, not to think, not to feel.
then, perhaps, we could truly know
what it means to die
and what it means to live.
So don’t ask me how I’m doing
’cause I’m too damn tired to lie.

Drama
you don’t love me, you love my story
the pathos, tragedy, and drama
of my afterschool special, made-for-tv-movie life
you love the chance to be more than just an extra:
the guy at the coffeeshop or man crossing street,
or simply known as Shopper #7.

You want a starring role
something bittersweet to fill
the hole of inconsequentiality in your life
the leftbehind lover and the grieving widow,
looking for an excuse to live your life lonely and alone,
everyone remembers the grieving widow
and excuses her noble vigil as she pines.

but this is my story, my drama,
and I don’t feel like sharing
I don’t feel like being used to make you feel important.
find another production to be in this casting call is closed
This is a one-man show.

I will die alone just to spite you
no sad goodbyes, no teary endings, at least not for you
unremembered, unremarked
as Shopper #7

I am not my body
I am not weak,
weak with fatigue, weak with atrophy, weak with limbs that give out well before the job is done, quivering and panting.

I am not my body
I am not dying, decaying, degenerating
debilitating, disease-ridden, dissolving, disappearing…
slowly, like blood stains on the sidewalk, bleaching under footsteps and the daily sun –
until one day you just notice that they’re gone
and you can’t remember who left them, who died.
All you can remember is that the crime scene jammed traffic for blocks, the sudden stop/start of the bus spilling coffee on your shirt, and making you late for work.
You remember that.
Curious, though, the coffee stain is still there, no matter what you do –
just keep your jacket closed so no one sees.

I am not my body,
I am not slowly slipping into shadows
Losing brightness and luminosity
Sinking in obscurity and the sussurus of memory.
I am not my body
slowly wearing out like an eraser on the pencil of a writer
leaving bits and pieces of myself behind, evidence of mistakes and redirected thought,
wearing slowly to a useless nub.
If I would write less perhaps I would last longer, maintain my shape, my form, my body
but the writing serves a purpose, if only to make the eraser useful.
And the writing I can’t stop.

I am not my body
I’m a shining, luminous creature, strong and vibrant
casting shadows of my own illuminesence
burning into minds and onto paper
growing stronger every day.
My appetite and capacity feed cravings that direct me and empower me
imparting flight to me like that of hummingbirds – no,
not stupid hummingbirds but honeybees.
Swarming out from hidden places, taking sustenance and energy from everywhere they stop to feed, yet always leaving something fertile and productive,
bits and pieces left behind. They, too, serve a purpose.
but even bees are gone at sunset, fly to shadows ‘fore the night arrives
So maybe then I’m not a bee, or hummingbird.
But I am damned sure not my body
I’m not.