Potable water under the bridge

All it took was to lay my eyes on you, and all the 2008 memories sailed back. That brief five seconds I held you in my arms felt like infinity and right there I knew I’d be seeing you again, very soon. That knowledge became a reality that night and the day after until I realised, just like it once dawned on me seven years ago, we’re going nowhere slowly.

What is different this time around is the fact that I am wide awake and for once it looks as if you’re wounded by my maturity and disappointed that I found it easy to leave and never called; so much so you saw it fitting to antagonize my unfamiliar demeanors.

I’ll admit, I missed you. In fact, I want to be with you right this minute. Perhaps this is possible in my thirties – not in my twenties. Maybe you really are the love of my life and that your lingering taste in my mouth will be something I invigorate for as long as I find you sexually attractive. It’s also possible that you and I will merely live in sin and will continue to regularly make romantic and sexual overtures towards each other, and subsequently live to be loathed by many.

Drafting this post, it feels like I’m 22 years old all over again. God knows; I see you, I just want to fuck your brains out. The fact that your memories of me are simply the best and that in your mind I’m an angel is not helping. The fact that we both know that, every now and then, I romanticize the idea of having you stimulate my anterior rectal wall is not helping. The fact that there the question of whether or not I’d enjoy this remains a mystery is not helping.

One minute, I see us working. But knowing that you have no intention to even try and understand the concept of conciliation in our situation dislocates all prospects. Honestly, I despise this about you – which makes me wonder why I still hold you in such high regard to the extent that your soft sneeze would tear the impenetrable membrane that covers my heart.

Other times, the reality is inevitable and of course excruciating just by observing my friends’ facial expressions whenever your name comes up then I’m subjected to “are you okay?” and “say one word, and I’ll make him disappear” or “you don’t have to see him” sentiments. This is all because they care. Yet, here we are; entertaining the idea of making it work knowing very well this would never work. My poor friends…

Man, I love you. But this has to stop.

You have to work with me and help me let you go. Please help me stop hoping that one day you and I will run away together. Help me stop thinking that one day you will change for me or that I’d ever accept your irrational and selfish justifications.

There is a high possibility I’m lying to myself and that I’m fighting the inescapable; you and I truly belong together. Perhaps, I have to go back and experience once more what used to be in order to swiftly move on to the next chapter. A big part of me wishes that I’d pretend to make it work and have you hurt me in every sense of the word. Maybe then, it would be easy letting you go. But I also know for sure that doing this will damage my career; the one thing that seems to bring me constant joy. So, no.

I don’t know what to do.

Happy read!

The intolerable throbbing discomfort of love

In my experience, and in a world where narrow-mindedness holds power, nothing beats being in love; nothing beats being in love with another man and nothing beats getting hurt by another man.

So many of us find sanctuary in love while this remains the scariest territory for some. It is in love that I cry, despite being duped to believe positivity is supreme. From my face, I have wiped tears of joy and I have cleared my dotted cheeks tears of sorrow. At present, I still live to believe love is the only reason I willing step out of bed to pursue obligations.

I grew up meticulously loved. I grew up around love. I grew up with love. Yet, love remain one phenomenon I struggle to comprehend. As such, I respect love and I’m shit scared of falling in love; that time my past – and the various bedrooms I have walked in – betray this fear. Hard.  

Take me back to when I was inexperienced and immature, I utter these words each time I am hurt by another man. Yet, I look around and apparently something in me continues to entice the same species I intend to escape.

I cannot continue from here…                       

Happy read!

The bigger picture – The error in my breathing rhythm

I woke up this morning, and I realised my feet hurt.

I woke up and I realised my toes carry distinctively shaped callus of dead skin.

I realised I needed to undo my shoelaces. I realised I tie my sneakers too tight.

I woke up and I remembered I could do without shoelaces.

Just yesterday, it felt like my spirit drifts to emulate gentleness of a stream.

And yet, my feet are stumble and I’m falling apart.

Of course, I smile and continue to probe the minds of stimulating societies every day.

Now I have learnt; so much depends upon my ability to inhale.

So much relies on my decision to confidently stand up and decline.

So much depends upon the art of letting go, and a whole lot on my intuition relating to indistinct quitting.

I woke up this morning, and I realised I needed to change my story.

I woke up and I realised this cannot be my story.

I woke up and I remembered my story is different.

Yes, the sentiment to flip feminine fellas askew is common.

But, I have defined and seamlessly managed the most dreadful pains espoused by my heart.

How have you?

On a normal day, I walk on parallel and ultimately conflicting paths throughout.

Where have you been?

There’s something wrong with all of us. At least my qualms exist in the past.

I woke up this morning, and I realised my life begins today.

I woke up and I realised I’m unclear of your story nor are you an expert in mine.

I woke up and I remembered only I can undo my bondages.

I woke up and I remembered my story is different.

Happy read!

Winners are at war

Winners are at war; belligerent and compelled to fight for what’s strictly theirs.

Their lips spit firestorms and they speak deluded insight.

We are at war with ourselves. We are at war with the colour of our own skin.

We are at war with what is right; fighting our way out of a plight.

Our complex, strong, and oh so inequitable minds emulate backbones loaded with sharp objects.

 

Winners are at war; belligerent and compelled to fight for what’s strictly theirs.

Why be happy when I can be thrilled making you dejected?

What is yours is not yours. It is mine and I will assassinate for it.

Why be rich when I can be rich making you poor?

Triumph is appealing to the eyes of those whose efforts are instinctively futile.

 

Winners are at war; belligerent and compelled to fight for what’s strictly theirs.

Brown bread and butter are not enough to those who are unschooled.

Scold poverty, and goodness and mercy shall follow you.

School your enemies, and madness and mediocre shall comfort you.

Uncouth behaviours reap more riches than the efforts of the prudent men.

 

Winners are at war; belligerent and compelled to fight for what’s strictly theirs.

Hunger has reached far deep; it’s entrenched on the grounds of resentment.

Corporate passages are unoccupied, our brothers are demanding what’s not theirs on the streets.

School doors are closed, our sisters lie in wait for answers in clinics and hospitals.

The Gods are confused. Our mothers and father are shunned. Why is our earth in flames?

Happy read!

Dear S’duko*,

I lost you months ago. But, no day will ever be sadder, epitomizes despair and confusion, than the one where I realised I had to submit to the loss and let go. For a while, I chose to turn a blind eye to you pulling away; taking with you all the memories, the life along with the company we both had.

 Sure, as evidence recited, I fucked up. And me, being my mama’s son, I owned up to an error you, for reasons I still don’t know, saw as a middle finger. But then again, you had your lover’s eyes while my views could have been swayed by my millions former lovers.

 Silly me for actually believing there’s such a thing as forgiveness.

 Had it not been for the man I had, at the time, I would have lost my mind. Most likely made a fool of myself. His view was and still is that I have wronged you a million times before. How I wish you could tell him he was wrong.

 Today, it has hit me: you left with all the silver while I remained with the soul. Your shadows glitter and your presence are echoed, as I continuously gain emotional stability and physical growth. Yes, I have become fat.

 The voices in my head are correct to think I still love you. But my mama is dead-on to guess that I never meant much to you to begin with.

Happy read!

To the God(z)

Realness was redefined when you bumped me.

What I knew came to never be.

What was strange came to be.

Realness was redefined when you bumped me.

You found my eyes, and I found God.

You lived so I can know you to be real.

You gave so I could learn to receive.

The frame of mind, all around me, is new.

You call it fresh, I say it’s love.

That which you inserted in me.

The same you welcomed inside you.

Songs need not make sense anymore.

You became the fundamental lyric my lips serenaded.

My mere existence transformed your frown.

You gave me your hand, a job I reimbursed.

Realness was redefined when I gave you the time.

Vaguely, we may have created light. But we had a life.

Happy read!

The last days

You would swear there was never a start to begin with. The beauty of a gloomy winter’s day vanishes, and a summer’s day becomes a total contrast to what your skin once felt. This is nothing more than the ending.

 

Once upon a time, you believed and trusted in a cybernetic conception your mind centered on grounds societies believe to be concrete. The grounds are firm. The hands that lay the bricks are in question. Whose hands could they be? They are not mine. You claim they are not yours too. No one wants to take the blame.

 

Almost always, the dead take the blame. We will find ourselves wanting to blame the dead and absent figures for the same responsibilities our hearts dared us to carry Unlike a crossroad; flanked by options from all remits, further routes begin and come to an end where your toenails cease to grow.

 

Where you are standing is all there is. At this point, reality is harsh and the view from the back cooks pain that is too much to bear. Your shoulders have not become broader as a man by virtue of growing testosterone; your shoulders have carried this same experienced before.

 

Woman, your breasts have not just protruded as a reaction to affluent penises; your heart has been beaten hard, once again. It is swollen. For unknown reasons, our foreheads are like those of our fathers, except something as petty as affection makes ours spurt sweat; unlike theirs.

 

Each day we live, we crawl towards achieving our heart longings; you could find us talking even when no one is paying attention. We believe people hear us. The same people we hold up high. Yet they are betrayed by their actions towards us, and we still intend to follow.

 

Many have come and gone, leaving scars of betrayal and ungratefulness. A few have stayed in the form of the packages we have become; independent and hold an objective aimed at the same satiation. With them, we lose every bit of fear, stretch the hand and reach for their intentions.

 

Today, we have broad shoulders and big breasts that can narrate our pains, but I believe we are still not listening. No matter how many times the dawn seizes the moment; accentuating ills ahead, one yearns to be important in someone’s life and one preys after individuals who can satiate this thirst.

 

Happy read!

I give birth to myself

I give birth to myself, so it seems.

I realised this as I mulled over which hole my skinny pipe should infiltrate.

Of course, its own intentions are flexible, as opposed to what my mind anticipates and lusts for.

My two hands clutch on it, hold it together and it behaves.

This way I find myself. And, this is how I know I give birth to myself.

I conserve resentment at the sight of discernment under my roof.

Yes, in the eyes of the enemy, I am capable of pulling punches with this broken wrist of mine.

I murmur hymns and silently recite celestial idioms; calling onto sincere influences.

Suddenly, I am entirely serene. That way, I realise I give birth to myself very often.

Surely, I give birth to myself.

Carrying an abbreviated burden, the world is still conspicuously beautiful in my eyes.

Bordering opinions toss attempts, this way. Yet, my pupils are fixed on the bigger picture.

I stretch both my lips, forcing them to part and interpret what the heart emits.

And then, the light seems to be all over the tunnel. This is how I know I give birth to myself.

I am convinced I give birth to myself because my etiquettes wear panties in sun-drenched climates.

Yep! I show my nipples in the rain, my pubes hang in washing lines, as my personality wanks in corridors.

But, my undies remain glued to my etiquettes. This is how I learn my water broke.

And, I understand that I continue to give birth to myself.

Happy read!

Free, most of yourself

There is something exciting about honesty. There is something freeing about forsaking all the clichés and delusions concerning coming clean to an individual you know, love and respect. This could be you mother, a lover or someone whom you consider a friend.

That is why; therefore, the other person looks at you and cites positive energy radiating from your direction; an aura that fills the atmosphere in your presence. It is because you have chosen to liberate your mind, body and soul from the manacles of chaos, deception and from a life based on lies.

Of course, your expectations, with regards to the response you might receive after being honest do not necessarily have to be as positive. However, the right thing has been done; and that is practising a principle that will certainly help you uphold a rigid perspective to the world. Most importantly, to the people who are willing to be part of your life.

You have control over the way other people treat you. You have the power to shape their view of you and you can teach them to respect you by not pretending to be someone you are not. Being true to yourself and to the people you surround yourself with compliments honesty.

Free most of yourself by merely being honest, completely.

Happy read!

Listening proves to be a skill, still

While I may not quarrel one’s cooperation with Journalists in collecting facts, I am convinced it is an absolute slur to parenthood to admit to newspapers that your child came home after school minus his cellphone and some of his school items, further narrated to you that he was being bullied at school yet you, as the parent, failed to explore the rumour.

Had this woman listened AND heard when her child spoke, the ordeal that saw ‘good riddance of the dead’ in the lips of every pupil at Phineas Xulu Secondary School would have never happened.

Listening and hearing are two different things. Therefore, without the latter, we cannot expect a response nor should we anticipate a reaction.

Of course, this concept is betrayed by those who have not been heard and listened to.

Happy read!

Thabo (eradicate indlala)

I believe that education is indisputably the best instrument towards personal development. And, I also believe that the only way I can plunge back to being poor is if I make a blunder of the prospects education has afforded me.

I believe that education is not the only lawful and correct route to putting food on the table. And, I also believe that there are alternative routes, only they require the usage of your brain with a tinge of determination, underlined by a plan.

Know that I have come to experience worry concerning you and the challenges you have, academically. The thought of you struggling to finish high school raises questions to my abilities as an educated sibling; hence self-blame unceasingly appears to arouse the feeling of guilt.

I know that poverty is a ground that breeds an environment that is damaging to people’s development; mentally, physically and emotionally.

But, know that I have come to accept and understand that there are other options you can manipulate so as to create a comfortable life for yourself.

My duties as your brother can merely go so much as making sure that you obtain basic skills that could score you a desk in an office. It is only your train of thought and ambition that can perhaps move you from that small desk by the door towards addressing blue-chip executives in a boardroom.

I am well aware that a significant path out of poverty requires a robust economy that produces jobs and good salaries. And, I am also well aware that the impact carried through the ability to raise a productive workforce can last for generations.

Do yourself a favour and defy imitating the people who constantly speak of bridging the growing gap between poor people and the rich, while unfounded are the actual actions towards accomplishing this brilliant idea and instituting it to become observable efforts.

The same voices influence young underprivileged men and women to dream big, yet no one puts an emphasis on the idea of actually waking up and working towards fulfilling that dream. As a result, your neighbours have formed part of a generation that spends most of its valuable time complaining about the government that fails them.

Beats me as to what has glued them tight on the chairs someone else built.

P.S: indlala = poverty

Happy read!

Never close our eyes

Without a doubt, a number of Christians believe that we are currently experiencing the wrath of God.

Being one myself, I seem to concur. I am looking at the saddest things taking place around me, the disasters claiming the lives of fathers who live their families behind, the fatal HIV/AIDS that steals the souls of young men and women whose potential was once fit for the evolution of this beautiful South Africa.

And that is what I pray for; I pray for peace in this world and I pray for a strong and caring government in this country…  Martine Whitehead, my colleague, spoke these words and I found myself teary just at the imagination of our homes getting demolished by issues we can effortlessly avoid.

Happy read!

(No subject)

Like an illusion, life is impermanent.

Bid me farewell and Let the time to part be sugary.

Let this be not the finishing line, but my entirety.

Now let me rest.  

Baby, daddy was happy.

I lived, I wrote and I laughed.

I see, from a distance, a home considered for my kind.

Hold my hand, and know that I possess a mind in love and a place in life.

Child, let me go.

Baby, daddy won’t be home tomorrow, tell papa not to cook.

The trends of temporariness have blown and my sight has stopped as my breath concluded its chapter.

I have been told, I am to rise again. I do not believe.

I have been taught, to believe all things possible. I do not believe.

Without a trace of shadows in it, let my name take my place, in your heart and in the mind.

Let it be in your lips at the sight of grinded grapes.

And, let it remind you of love, music and laughter.

Take it with you when you go home.

I am not really gone. I am on to new beginnings.

I have a deal with destiny. She is taking me away.

Although fear crept in for a while, now I am blithe.

So thoughtless to even worry about what my fate is.

Happy read!

Dante’s last blog

Two hours ago, I received a call from an old friend of mine who is based in East London. My friend came across a blog that mentioned my name in it and he suggested I take a look at it.

He refused to go into detail with regards to what the blog was about or who it belongs to. He forwarded me a link; a link I followed.

The link he sent me led me Dante Bello’s blog - Raison d’être! - on a post that seems to have been his last one before he died.

What my friend does not know is that I knew Dante and I knew him very well. To me he was like a brother, to some degree and although I only met him a few times, I feel he left me, and the voices he inspired to speak freely, too soon.

Never mind his short-stay; he definitely made a mark in the lives of many black Africans.

A few dubbed him provocative and philosophical, but I saw Dante as a man of principle; a soul that craved absolute good in the continent.

Since the day I saw a tweet that confirmed his death, I have not been to his blog. So, today I went back to a place Dante introduced me to, a podium I used to challenge his ideology and a platform he used to shape views on certain political and social issues.

In my view, he used this blog to speak his mind in an effort to inspire change and build character in black people, especially those who were close to him.

Having gone through Raison d’être!’s last post, I felt the need to have that same piece on my blog. Of course, not denying the late brother of his credit in the blog.

It appears Dante wrote this post about a year ago.

Postcard From Freetown - Reflections!

Moments have gone by and time is still relatively waiting for no man. This is the reality we are faced with as earthlings. I sit on a chair on my balcony reflecting and reminiscence the thoughts that flow through my mind, words lingers to chaste.

It has been a while I put pen to paper and I can’t say it’s a writer’s block but rather I’ll succumb to the sentiment that it was a wilful decision to stop writing, read more about what others are writing, immerse myself in these spaces to acquire more knowledge, ideology, views, opinions, sentiments and indulge in the literal thinking of others.

Read more here...

Happy read!

Sit down and listen!

No! No! NO!

Sit down and listen!

Yes! You, sit down and listen!

Yeah, sit down and listen to me!

I am talking.

Man, I’ve been watching you pace the streets, moving up and down

Strutting the ramps and expressing His and Hellos to strangers and common men

While I struggle to get you to pay attention

I walked wide miles, at times, helping you sweep your adversity

Today, your glance my way has become short in supply

You forget the city has painted me all sorts of colours for you

Third parties intervene, for you to even look my direction

Were we not a niddle and a thread at one point?

One of us had a hole in which the other penetrated, being the thread, of course

Woman, I see you ripping the runways with your long legs carried by your fierce attitude

Your lips following suit, as they seem to have forgotten to keep mum

You walk past the homeless, waving like Elizabeth at the rich dudes

The next thing you will be blowing kisses at Charles

Gosh! You are talking and you've been talking

But, I need you to listen.

I need to speak and you need to hear me

But first, sit down and listen!

Your lips have been moving

Not only when you were eating, but even when I was bleeding, you didn't even see 

You were not paying attention!

Sit down and listen!

I have always wanted to tell you I love you 

Time permitted, you deluded all chances

Now, my courage is garbage that has filled my whole being with fear

Just like water flowing shamelessly on a drain, I am miserable

At least, I look the part

Girl, sit down and listen!

Forget the sidewalks, who walks anyway?

My opinion is choking my throat

I am bleeding and my oesophagus will rot.

My eardrums are filled with your voices and the words you utter every day

Simply because I listened to you and I heard you

You silenced my view; hence I am dead inside

I have pursued your traits, and I’m led to your ruin
But, I want to open my eyes.

I want to see.

But first, do you hear me, sliced and torn to pieces screaming out your name?

Can you even see me?
Clearly you reside in infamy

No! No! NO!

Sit down and listen!

Gosh! I have been walking around like a zombie

I pleased you, forsaking my core existence

Actually, I lived you. I was you.

You made me you and I grew so day and night

Just like the best of my rival, you beheld me corpse

You knew it was not me, but you held up high the idea

I am done.

Men, women and beings of forged essence

Today is the morning after

And all things are neither your scrutiny nor plan

I am talking. You heard me.

Don’t glance this way, either way your ear will face me

Your veiled perception faded along with your pathetic spirit
With bare feet, I am stepping on hot coals carrying an aim, a voice and no resentment

Those will carry me further

Hopefully lead me away from your feeble handmade crown.

Happy read!

Couldn't have been love...

So many times, he’d say “I’ll be right back...”

I believed him, and with that look in his eyes I felt his truth

He promised me something, leaving me with a guarantee, certainty and his word

Tightly knotted with his, my heart felt the honesty in his voice

He never lied, he loved me

He loved me, I knew it

I knew him and I loved him

I watched him care for me always

He nurtured me, kissed me and splurged on me

He did things to my body and my mind would blast of ecstasy

His touches, kisses and love making tactics blew my every part

I could have never been ice, he melted me every time

He was mine and I was his

We shared not only t-shirts and secrets

We shared the sheets, cups and sweets

We shared a dime, our families and styles

I gave him my heart, I swear I had his

I walked the streets with joy

The love I got at home could catch me when I fall

I had eyes looking at me all the time with jealous minds and envious bitches eyeing shine

I thought they were jealous,

Then I heard a word; he hadn’t said things, he’d done things, I see

My sandcastle had collapsed, you see

This was a lie; he and I were a lifetime

We were more than just lust

My peace threatened to flee

NO! This was NOT the day

What were they doing to me? Breaking me?

The golden thread connecting his love to my heart a figment?

This was a lie; jealous minds and envious whores had spotted my shine

Because he loved me, he had to know

Good old us, were to deal with this; together

Mama, NO! He dealt with me, the way daddy dealt with you

Old memories emerged with shocking incidents, he was abusing me

He dealt with me, I could not believe

He’d mistaken strangles for stroking my throat

Coiled up in the same bed we’d lay in when he loved me, my ribs were in pain.

Today, he was hurting me, had he lost his magic?

Mama, he was NOT loving me, love had left our temple and it had dumped his sight
My screams cannot be heard unlike when I moan with him inside me

But, I had to ask him. Jealous minds and envious whores were denting us

But his punches were messing me

I see all we are had never been, his love had cost me a tooth,

And this way, I had never been free

In my face he’d set his footprint,

Then I knew he’d never loved me, he wanted to see me broken

My teardrops had built up streams, finding sanctuary on my scars

The most beautiful butterfly in my heart had died

As I looked up, I saw no glitter not even a star,

I saw a man whose expression was confronted by guilt

His penis had betrayed him; hence my love saw the door.

Happy read!

Past, my dear friend

Life is full of gorgeous moments. With those moments, of course, where all that the physical eye sees and the mind understands as murky. Wise minds, nonetheless, spend most of their time working on what seems to make them happy. The aim being to develop a sustainable way of living a happy life. 'Some' people spend their time feeling sorry for the things that go wrong in their lives as opposed to - at least - trying to sort their problems out or finding ways to deal with THEM.
 
This perspective of mine is stirred by my everyday living which is never unwavering. Well, I face challenges just everyone else, but like the wise minds, I choose to focus on developing sustainable ways of living my life happily.
 
This works. Living happily that is. However, I have come to realise that, I carry my past with me and I have been doing so for most of my life. This means that my past basically has a say in most of the moves I make to create a future for myself. This becomes a problem, as a result because I was brought up in an environment where my mentality was shaped to believe that the past has no place in the future. The irony, subsequently, is the fact that the decisions I make today are based on what happened yesterday.
 
This realisation (of my past smooching my future) sprang to mind when I had friends over, this past week, for a movie; The killer inside me. A movie they found traumatic due to its ‘disturbing’ and very graphic brutality. Halfway through a scene where a woman repeatedly gets punched on the face by a man, they demanded I take it out. I did.
 
My friends failed to understand how I could watch such a movie to the end, let alone recommend it to them. I had to explain; digging back in my past how I use to despise my step father who created a punch bag out of my mother to the point of bleeding, how i wished evil upon him to how miserable he is these days.
 
Sharing with them this, I didn't cry but deep down something was tearing me apart. Clearly I have grown and matured over the years or I have learnt to hide this particular pain so well. My body felt weird though, while my voice reached an even higher note.

The discussion grew, leading to some –in fact all the others- sharing what they know in regards to physical abuse. It was at that stage that I realised that this movie shook me up (even the first time I watched it) and it opened wounds I thought were healed. Well, the wounds have healed, but the issue remains that whatever happened between my mother and step father affected me strongly, and somehow has affected the way I do things or respond to delineation of physical abuse. This is what my friends found very creepy.

My ‘father’ may not have physically abused me like my mother, well not that much, but I was around every time the fights took place. Because of that, my emotions were bruised, my mind was dented and my heart damaged.  
 
The fact that I managed to sit and take in what all my friends considered repulsive behaviour hit me and it scared me. I’m assuming my friends thought I did not find the movie disturbing or maybe I suggested the movie thinking it is funny.

Happy read!

Things

Rebels have gone wrong

Listening to rules regulating their ways of life

Restoring sense of normality in their sights, while their core beings cry foul and betrayal.

Good girls epitomise horrendous lifestyles, pushing manners outside

While hosting behaviour so absurd, their mothers’ prides die at the sight of cows leaving kraals

Fathers beat the flesh aiming to reinstate respect, dignity and wealth

Wealth acquired just by having their daughters’ boobs maintains shape

Enabled to entice Mr Penis behind the zipper.

We write, we sing and we preach one word in one world

But with one word we crash the one world we live in.

We’re leaving, heading towards a place so free and elevating, but that place is in us.

In fumbling on paths leading to our hearts we find comfort

But we refuse to embrace it in fear of debates and contrasts.

Fat bitches meanwhile breathe homophobic flames unto men who embrace beard.

Having suppressed lust for same sex, grown ass women finger adolescent girls

Trying to find their sexual stand, a dream is killed and a soul is buried

A mother is confused, a child is lost, and the world is messed up.

We live, we die and I’m told we live again, but we are lost in finding a way to be ourselves.

We seek the truth, we find lies, and then we realise there’s no hope for our lives,

Therefore we continue to lie. In fact, we die.

Happy read!

Solutions

Instances, examples and problems,

Emergencies, pain and silliness;

My body inevitably fails to connect and reasons cannot be defined.

Less sleep, more pills, mind drugged, my soul is dead,

And my young mind perished in the name of love.

Can I testify and say I was an actor, stage names, lies and imperfections defined me.

Forgetting lines, having no father but trusting in a man,

Failing schools tests, lacking direction but finding joy at varsity,

Limitations and boundaries dictating the light in my tunnel-shaped journey.

Instances, examples and problems,

Emergencies, pain and all;

Tradition abandoned, rules broken while hearts are in a process of being repaired,

Oh I cry, in the name of ancestors as a black soul

I cry in the name of those who live in the moment

I cry in the name of love; that which never existed.

I defined myself in the same way my enemies scrub their floors,

I explain my existence to those who felt I owed them.

I analysed my behaviour to a woman whose genitals stretched as God moulded my parts and shaped my heart, the same heart I have in my hand.

Instances, examples and problems,

Emergencies, pain and cluelessness;

I sleep around, I am sick; I no longer reap, but suck fruits less tasteful than bananas.

I forgot I was a man, I knew I was, but I had to thrust my being where my feet are forbidden as a man.

I forgot I was a loner, I knew I was, before I fell in love and felt good about it,

Deception fooled me; lust blinded me hence I often came quickly.

My traditions have found me, I chose you though I know you ditched me intentionally,

My heart is all repaired; I had to sort it, even though men stabbed me repeatedly in it,

I have found myself through instances, examples and problems,

Emergencies, pain and all.