Paraphernalic Thoughts

Dead Hounds

Dead hounds
Laid out on the red grounds
Dead hounds laid down everywhere
We can go pound for pound
And I can swear
They were the same strays
that barked at me
as I crossed their unmarked territories.

Dead hounds,
Laid down on the red grounds
Underneath the grey clouds.
Grey clouds in October's midst
What the fuck happened to you, Addis?
Your skies used to be clear this time of year,
but that no longer is the case now, miss.

I hear barks everywhere but when I head out,
I ain't see no loud bitch,
Except the stench from the hounds
Who all happened to be dead now, bitch.

Dead hounds, grey clouds,
Red crowns, make proud men
wash their hands from the blood
that ain't dissolved by water.
Takes you motherfuckers years to learn
that these problems ain't solved by murder
of identities, the only intangible things you can offer.

ውስጡ ግብዝ ሆኖ ውጪው ፈጣሪን የፈራ
እንዲመስልለት
እድፍ ልብሱን አጥኖት በአቧራ፣
ጽሀይ ስትጠልቅለት፣ ሲለው ያን ዳንኪራ፣
ዕብሪተኛ አንደበቱ፣ ሲነዛ ያንን ጉራ፣
ሲነጋ ሚያፍርበትን፣ ሌት ሙሉ ሲያቅራራ፣
ሽንፈት መዋረዱን “ድል” ብሎ ሲያብራራ
ያድርና፣ ይነሳል፣
“እንደው ባይኖርስ?” ለሚያስብለው ደመወዙ ሊሰራ።

Earthquakes splitting my land,
from December all the way to January.
Tell me the things you like
and I can use them as a litmus paper
to test your proximity,
towards the ways of your own purgatory.

Love letters written by Times New Roman,
so corporate,
the tired brute woman incorporates
verbal violence to her ever-growing repertoire,
skillsets that ensure the recipe to everlasting
loneliness.

Fierce and blue lights,
piercing through eyes,
too strong for the lenses,
true songs of expenses,
being sang to the masses,
but unheard and neglected.
Blue lights, through eyes,
yet this herd ain’t selected.

Too many herds,
too little packs,
one dagger, one sword,
can have them all stacked.

“Sadness prevails, hopelessness rules.
For how many days will this hell ensue?”
I ask myself before saying
what is long overdue.

I got my family on sight,
my niggas too on my side
long since my mind been set right.

Sadness won’t prevail when simplicity ensues.
And if a cup of coffee
as well as a good laugh
with the ones I love
is enough
for me to break a fucking smile,
then on God, this is living,
on God, this is living,
on God, this is living.

Dead hounds laid out on the red grounds,
and overfed clowns taking pride from red crowns,
dressed in blood they have to wash
off their hands every night
won’t derail me from finding my joy in spite.
And if the pups of the dead breathe life…
And when the pups of the dead breathe life,
then I have every reason to seek strife, do you get it?
Hell, every season breeds triumph,
if we let it.

All can be fixed,
some mistakes can be avoided,
and our sins can be nullified and voided
if we own them and voice them
to the right ears
of a single entity
existing as a trinity.
You always taught me that,
but I failed to listen,
and had to learn the hard way,
with calloused lungs
and a broken heart,
but still,
I learned.

As I ponder on this,
I sense my legs tingling
to embrace you in euphoria.
I’ve lived in the past,
even though you taught me
to only use it to pave a pretty road
once I start moving forward.
Reminiscing on these lessons
made me come to the realization that
the question begged
from that 7-minute-long letter,
the one
written in plea for your forgiveness,
can be answered with four words:
Nothing
but
youthful
naivete.

Dear Forest,
My old friend.

How do your leaves reside,
as do your snakes
and your primates,
your primal people alongside
their readymade snares,
the hungry panthers
and the weary herbivores with ginormous antlers,
as well as the birds soaring on your tree tops
and the worms writhing on your bed?

I hope and pray you are doing fine.
The city?
It is,
busy, to say the least.
But I have to keep living there
so as to fulfill my broken promises.

That one letter I sent you,
do you remember that?
It feels like ages ago
but I remember it like yesterday.

I’ve been loyal to your cause,
but for the same reason why mirrors shouldn’t exist everywhere,
I looked too deep within,
and felt like a reprobate.

I’d be a hypocrite
if I said I never sinned,
but did you feel like I turned my back on you
as much as I felt like I did?
Did you feel as though I burnt your trees,
cut everything down to smithereens,
when all I have done was nothing
but exist within your premises before leaving eventually?
Or am I the one with Alzheimer’s,
the one who kept a blind eye
and a deaf ear
to all my past transgressions?

Regardless, tolerance and apathy
are symptoms of a dying entity,
the greatest act of hate
man dares showcase,
and therefore, I may have had a point.

In hating myself!
And I did that a lot,
before I learned otherwise
before I was able to cut ties
with these old habits.

You are the only thing,
capable of sheltering
me from the opening
of the Pandora’s Box
that caused bedlam,
after bedlam,
after bedlam within my life.
You are the Golden Fleece
I always wait for gleefully,
even though you are always next to me.
The big question now, however,
lies in the fact whether
you are part of this reality.
And if not, I need to know why
I was sending you a letter
full of self-pitying apologies.

Last time I wrote you,
I was in my own purgatory.
Hell
is when you repeatedly,
damn yourself to a fate beyond your hands.

I was in the undertow,
unaware of where to go,
unaware of how to grow,
and rise amidst all of it.

I’m disillusioned, jaded,
disjointed and faded
from things I have to accept,
and guess what?
I did.

For long, it goes on.
And it’s the same process
that my naïve mind back then
thought was completely over.
No, no, no, no. Haha.
It was only the beginning.
Everything we deem as existence,
is an ongoing cycle of events
so rowdy and vicious,
yet too addicting for
us to accept the day we leave it.
Same bloody process,
but sub-zero progress
within our species. Haha.

I betrayed you with some of my actions, yes.
For long, I was lost,
but I am forever grateful I begged your forgiveness,
as the other option was taking you for granted
and coming back like nothing ever happened.
Lord forbid!
What a shame that would have been!

But we mustn’t forget that I am one of you,
I was raised from the depths of my youth,
and still I reside here,
if not by flesh, by mind.

Forest?
Was your harsh condition tentative?
There was never a day
I felt more afraid
as the one when I saw a blizzard
rain, rain, and then rain some more.
Is it all part of nature?
Or was it my offense?
Did your warmth return because I made amends?
Or did it do so as it was always part of the process?

Everyone is asleep as I write these.
And so, I need a moment of silence,
The calm before the storm of words
that exude nothing but violence,
towards my once guilty conscience
is upon the ever-present audience.

I’ve placed the blame on everything
including myself.
But it was fruitless,
so damn worthless.
You always taught me I was futile
but my young mind thought that I had no worth,
even though
you also said two things can be true at once.
I failed to connect the dots,
thus, I made lines that lacked congruence,
and the bridge I thought I’d made
broke down and all turned to a mess.

This is me bowing out btw. (I'm not but anything to get your attention eh? Lol. Haha). Y'all better watch this or else🔪

For the past three-and-a-half years, I have been creating different works under the pen name, The Conscientious Observer, in short “The Observer”. Apart from being a character, The Observer was a storyline where I could look within and build basis to my thoughts. The earlier days of this storyline were rough both literarily and personally.

3 years and a week back from now, I wrote part one of “My Friend, The Forest,” to express how I could no longer bear the burden of life and writing. I was at the lowest I had ever been internally. It was hell on earth. And at the time of writing it, I never thought I would ever return to the pen again. I got back 5 months later lmfao.
The forest, for me, is my conscience. It was where I lived, and when I first addressed the forest (aka my conscience), I believed I had betrayed it. I felt homeless although I had a roof above me.

After writing, reciting, and recording this piece, I absolutely cut off all things writing for 5 full months, and even after getting back, I did not bother look back at this piece. But I always felt as though there was something I did not address, and that was the question I asked on the final part of part one of “My Friend the Forest”. And some months back, I decided it was time. And what fitting way to end a story?

These years have been awesome for me, as a person and a writer. It helped me define myself through writing, while at the same time, separating the part of me that writes to me as a person. I would like to express massive thanks to everyone who has followed me on this journey. መድኃኔአለም አብዝቶ ይስጣችሁ።

So, without further ado, I present to you the final piece to The Conscientious Observer’s 3-year storyline: My Friend the Forest, Part 2.