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Archives for May 2015

I need smoke

“you outchea flying high… go head fly that thing high… high”

When I’m high, I feel
When I’m high, I smile
not because I’m happy.
When I’m high, I laugh
When I’m high, I talk
not because I’m happy.

Being high redefines life,
it kinda loosens the knife.
I can let go without excuses,
I try so hard not to misuse.
But it has me in it’s jaws.
One more puff-puff-pass and I’m swallowed.
Sounds crap but I don’t care.
I don’t even mind the stare.

When I’m high, I fly.
Follow me and my broken lead and we can take the sky.
Need smoke?

My Window

Look deep into my eyes, can you not see my hurt and pain?

My eyes begging you to love me, so scared and tearful.

My eyes wonder around my surroundings, looking for objects of destruction to get rid of the pain buried inside, and use the outside pain to numb the inside pain.

They say the eyes are the windows to someone soul, is that true?

Is my window dark and empty? does my eyes reflect that?

That is how my heart and soul feels, dark, sad and empty.

My eyes will tell the truth to you while my lips lie but can you see it my eyes?

My eyes seem to have lost the twinkle that once surrounded them as they have been replaced by sorrow and tears.

My eyes look at you, pleading you to understand and begging your forgiveness, as I dare not say it out loud so I use my silent way of talking.

People don’t understand the hurt , sorrow and emptiness that my eyes hide from the world.

My body might lie but the truth lies deep inside my eyes and my soul, buried like Pandora’s box, waiting in the gloomy darkness to be discovered and opened.

I love Cape Town

I love Cape Town through and through;
Perfect place for me and you.
Smell her history in the air;
See her beauty everywhere.

Not too hard to get around;
Many treasures to be found.
Friendly people that you meet;
Always kind and quick to greet.

Just someone I know

She’s almost three decades old;
Believes almost anything she’s told.
She pays no attention to what’s inside her;
But only reflects on what’s denied her.

She always fiddles with her shoes,
When she thinks she has something to lose.
She hates school, but loves education,
And hopes to one day reach her destination.

“That Wednesday Afternoon”

He invited me on a Wednesday afternoon,

To his house.

He invited me that Wednesday afternoon,

To his room.

He invited me very leisurely,

To sit on his bed;

He invited me very tenderly,

To kiss his mouth,

                      WE HEAR NOISES FROM DOWNSTAIRS.

He invited me very grudgingly,

To say hi to his mom,

She revealed that he’d made his bed because of me,

She thanked me.

A FEW MOMENTS LATER,

WE HEAR HER LEAVE THE HOUSE.

THE BEDROOM DOOR CLOSES ONCE MORE.

He invited me to lay on his labour, where our mouths merged;

The dictators of our speech were

Harmonizing yet battling, licking yet triumphing.

I spontaneously took off my shirt, my bra, my belt, my jeans;

With a tiny, triangle patch left to guard my virtue,

He invited me to unbutton his button down and unzip his jeans.

That Wednesday afternoon,

I saw things, he saw things, we felt things, but then

We stopped things, before they went any further.

 We hadn’t even expected ourselves to go

As far as we did that Wednesday afternoon.

Although, shortly after, when I was about to go home,

 He pecked my lips with promise.

Facade

They do not know. No one really does. She keeps all at arms length. Never letting anyone in too close- too near. She let’s them see what she wants them to see… but slowly the armour is starting to shatter. The rust is becoming visible and soon she is uncomfortable. She still wears her mask.

She struggles being afforded with compliments and praise or others viewing her positively but secretly she yearns for more acknowledgement. She is a complex being. She is both strong and fragile. She does not know who she really is but she is not who she use to be… but what she does not know is that she has changed. She has been shaped by her experiences. She still wears her mask.

why does she wear this mask, all too often? why can she not take it off and bear her soul? Is she afraid of her reality? Possibly. She is overwhelmed by her thoughts and the pressure she puts on herself. She is afraid of her dreams. She is both proud of who and what she is and terrified by her being at the same time. She still wears her mask.

Does anyone truly care, she asks? In the true essence of the word. She still wears her mask. She tries to slowly peel off her mask, but this sparks tears, fuels an undesirable unwanted uncomfortable feeling. She still wears her mask. She feels protected with her mask on. No one will ever know about her. She feels in control. Why then does this mask not make her happy? She still wears her mask. She stands lethargically alone staring at this mask she wears in the mirror. She is tired. She is weary. She is afraid… but she has also come to the realisation that as the years have passed, she has outgrown this mask. It no longer serves her. In fact, it never did. She starts to slowly remove it, welcoming any unpleasantness it brings as the tears roll down her cheeks.

She breaks as she falls to the floor, unable to face herself in the mirror. She indulges this feeling and chooses not to fight with herself anymore. She reluctantly forces herself to get up again, to stand and face the truth she sees in the mirror. The tears start flowing again but this time, because of an awakening. A catharsis unfolds. She sees reflected back at her, the strength she gained from adversity, the love she has for others and herself, the pride of how far she has come and the contentment of realising she is worthy of an abundance of blessings she has received and those that are yet to come.

She still battles with this new feeling, with not having on her armour but she is on a journey, okay with knowing that she does not always have to be okay… okay with accepting the misfortunes of the past and letting that fuel her growth… She is learning to be okay with herself…

She no longer wears her mask

Live!

Live!

When you live – you laugh, you cry
You make a difference
When you live – you fall, you try
You are the difference

Challenges, obstacles, disappointments;
Life’s hurdles.
Peace, harmony, joy;
Life’s victories.

You have the choice to revolutionize!
Change within and change your world.
You have been given the power to save!
Save within and save your world.

My nation, my children
Make a difference
My nation, my children
You are the difference

Facade

They do not know. No one really does. She keeps all at arms length. Never letting anyone in too close- too near. She let’s them see what she wants them to see… but slowly the armour is starting to shatter. The rust is becoming visible and soon she is uncomfortable. She still wears her mask.

She struggles being afforded with compliments and praise or others viewing her positively but secretly she yearns for more acknowledgement. She is a complex being. She is both strong and fragile. She does not know who she really is but she is not who she use to be… but what she does not know is that she has changed. She has been shaped by her experiences. She still wears her mask.

why does she wear this mask, all too often? why can she not take it off and bear her soul? Is she afraid of her reality? Possibly. She is overwhelmed by her thoughts and the pressure she puts on herself. She is afraid of her dreams. She is both proud of who and what she is and terrified by her being at the same time. She still wears her mask.

Does anyone truly care, she asks? In the true essence of the word. She still wears her mask. She tries to slowly peel off her mask, but this sparks tears, fuels an undesirable unwanted uncomfortable feeling. She still wears her mask. She feels protected with her mask on. No one will ever know about her. She feels in control. Why then does this mask not make her happy? She still wears her mask. She stands lethargically alone staring at this mask she wears in the mirror. She is tired. She is weary. She is afraid… but she has also come to the realisation that as the years have passed, she has outgrown this mask. It no longer serves her. In fact, it never did. She starts to slowly remove it, welcoming any unpleasantness it brings as the tears roll down her cheeks.

She breaks as she falls to the floor, unable to face herself in the mirror. She indulges this feeling and chooses not to fight with herself anymore. She reluctantly forces herself to get up again, to stand and face the truth she sees in the mirror. The tears start flowing again but this time, because of an awakening. A catharsis unfolds. She sees reflected back at her, the strength she gained from adversity, the love she has for others and herself, the pride of how far she has come and the contentment of realising she is worthy of an abundance of blessings she has received and those that are yet to come.

She still battles with this new feeling, with not having on her armour but she is on a journey, okay with knowing that she does not always have to be okay… okay with accepting the misfortunes of the past and letting that fuel her growth… She is learning to be okay with herself…

She no longer wears her mask

lost

Days of old have since been cold and gone,

drenched in sin and misery,  the stench of death lingers.

Untold yet gruesome pain defines yet again my discomfort.

Arid compassion, chilled by lust and still this tormentors

fiery feeling torments my restless soul ever the more,

for i hath been loosed and lay lost in this dreaded world.

This world has yielded nothing more but a darkest forger.

 

As to a damsel that loseth her innocence till such vial erodes her sentiment,

but in careful ponder i fright to bid tis foul upon mine desire.

Corrupted i hath let minself grow or yet still retard,

for to all born to this world, all manner of 10 forms of sin doth choseth us all.

A pity then that we chose which sins to succumb to.

Hath ye heard not of mercy,  nor hath not grace been preached and left on a stead

upon the pinnacle of the highest mountain for all to take heed?

yet we see it not for we most are indeed lost.

 

For a time, times and half a time,

this tiresome world hath and still shalt crave mercy

but a double measure of justice shalt be willed unto it.

For the Creator is not hush but just to those who set sight upon his grace

and trample such under foot for surely such latent fools are indeed lost,

yet be they worthy deserving of grace,

we hath fallen a stone’s throw short of hope and without such, all we are lost.

Journey

Two decades. That’s twenty years. That’s me.

I am 8, she is blind. Doctors can’t find any medical errors that would cause blindness in her body but that doesn’t stop him he keeps on going back and forth, getting this laser surgery, consulting that doctor, getting those pills – she drinks seven pills twice a day – he has faith. It is worse now she can’t see any type of illumination but that doesn’t stop her she creates a blueprint of the house, she starts examining appliances in the kitchen, she even starts cooking.

It is December. She is in hospital. Her sister is here helping him but she is especially here for her. The weather is sunny, beautiful and peaceful – the type of weather that makes you want to grab a blanket and lay under a tree, with your eyes closed, listening to the tranquil sounds of leaves shaking to the soft warm breeze that lightly massages your cheeks as if to kiss you like a shy debutant kissing her suitor for the first time, the type of weather that allows souls to float peacefully – she’s watching television. He’s in the shower. His phone rings, she runs to answer. It’s a white lady, she sounds awkward. She calls again. He steps out of the bathroom with tears in his eyes, he answers. “She’s gone. Mamma is gone, Juju”. Everything’s blank, she sees nothing she hears nothing. She finally opens her eyes and sees tears on the clothes, she can smell her everywhere. The smell makes her sick to her heart. She looks at the wall and sees a calendar, the date is December 22. “Would you look at that Christmas is in three days, I guess Santa Clause delivered my present early”

“She died peacefully” (they said), “she just slept and never woke up… painless” (they said) but that was all pity, stupid shallow sympathy. How can someone who died at the hands of green, vile jealousy die a peaceful death? Someone who was robbed from their 70 years?

How could you? You call yourself her friend, now she’s dead because of your evil heart. Tell me, how did it feel putting your muti under her desk? Did you even think about him? About her?  No curse on earth is evil enough to destroy you, no jail traumatizing enough to kill you and no hell hot enough to burn you – I bet Santa Clause got you a new phone.

One decade. That’s ten years. That’s me.

I can’t remember her voice. I can remember her hair, her smile, her face, her hands, her eyes. But I can’t remember her voice – love sounds so better when it has a voice. Now I don’t have the ability to remember what I had all I know is what I will never have. I will never have a phone number to call when I need to complain about a boy and ask for money. I will never have her to thank for bringing me to life at my graduation. I will never get to feel to her unconditional love, that close to the soul love… that “emotionally no one should be able to survive without it” love.

I might be twenty but I will forever be ten, because when I was ten that was the last time I heard her voice.

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