Born in South Africa in 1918
95 years, a long life you had seen
Maybe not the best but better than most
You won the Presidential medal of freedom and the Nobel peace prize
Sadly today, the world cries.
You will be missed by so many
and are known by all
the impact you made on this world was nothing small
so many obstacles but you found a way
your determination inspires many people
that is why the 5th of December will always be a very sad day
You were great maybe the best
now it is time for you to finally rest
You changed the world and made it better
Rest In Peace, NELSON MANDELA
He will be missed
They were unnecessary when I was in your arms
because our eyes said it all
they said them for us.
The way you leaned in
Not a single word was spoken,
against your lips.
But now my words
just come spilling out
of those same lips
that met yours
it seems like years.
I can't contain my words
which I guess might be a good thing.
Because words are powerful.
They can move mountains
I told him I was a painter
that drew in scarlet red
all you need is a paintbrush
it's as easy done as said
He asked me what I painted
I said of sorrow and pain
painting brings me joy
when I need to get away
I paint my pretty pictures
way late at night
lock myself in my room
hidden out of sight
not many people
paint the way I do
I'll show you my gallery
if you really want me to
I rolled up my sleeves
and showed him my arms
"Do you like my paintings?"
It is 11:26
and the stars demand my attention
but I am much too busy
counting all the miracles
here beneath my swollen eyelids
and chipped nails
on the shaky lines
of my misused palms
The first one being that you're
the rest just describing the way your arms
fit around me
when you hold me so close
I can hear the unsteady drum
of your heart
A totally nondenominational prayer: Insofar as I may be heard by anything, which may or may not care what I say, I ask, if it matters, that I be forgiven for anything I may have done or failed to do which requires forgiveness. Conversely, if not forgiveness but something else may be required to insure any possible benefit for which I may be eligible after the destruction of my body, I ask that this, whatever it may be, be granted or withheld, as the case may be, in such a manner as to insure said benefit. I ask this in my capacity as your elected intermediary between yourself and that which may not be yourself, but which may have an interest in the matter of your receiving as much as it is possible for you to receive of this thing, and which may in some way be influenced by this ceremony. Amen.
I find myself unconsciously knowing
What's been held all my years vastly growing
Deeply imprinted within my soul
Always open, sore, an empty hole
Feeling wounded, bleeding but nothing drips
Unveiling a heart that unzips
Open for all to see
What lies beneath, inside of me
Covered,drowning in tears
Consumed, overwhelmed, I hold many fears
Knowing this embracing it will set me free
Understanding, realizing this is who I'm meant to be
I feel it, you hear but cover your ears
I am alright the blur that was swiftly clears
Can't you see, put down your hands, uncover your eyes
Yes, I have a heart that always cries
I am built of sorrow, I say this strong
This is who I am, why change there's nothing wrong
I pray the way I am never ceases
That the sorrow that made me never vanishes.
No. I’m not a beautiful person. I am not the gentle sunset whose pink light glows and lingers. I am a Monday morning, I am the bombs that explode outside your door; I am a piece of glass broken from an old bottle. My body cries on a daily basis. I fall from cloud nine with an unmistakable crash, and I would apologise for my dull sadness, but I can’t find the words to say. I believe that everything happens for a reason and that I don’t belong around these people. I belong to all the sleepless nights and the tossing and turning. The way the bright city lights and the summer nights mix and the darkness in my soul and the happiness on my face causes an earthquake. You don’t see the buildings collapse but you hear them crumble.
Ink, wouldn't fill my paper
into the air it leapt, turning to vapor
the words, never crept into my head
maybe, there not meant to be said
because my thoughts, have gone and hid
to be written, on this paper, they forbid.
Not one word, nor sentence, has entered my mind
the way to express, my feelings, I can not find
a mind and heart confused
my hand, to this pen, is fused
because I owe, that much as an explanation
to say I'm sorry, for the separation.
But am I truly sorry, that we are not meant to be
that you and I together, is not what I foresee
now released, from all confusion
free, from the disillusion
that I owed you, now knowing better
the pen to my hand, defuses, and I crumple this letter.
Poor is not caring enough anymore to clean the nasty blue molded dishes in your South hood apartment. Poor is going in your brother's room to scrape the last bit of deoderant off the bathroom counter in order to pretend like you still have at least enough dignity not to smell like a homeless person, because you aren't quite that poor (yet) Poor is knowing that rent was due today, 12/11/2013, or was it yesterday? Either way it hasn't been paid. Poor is trying to make $10 last 3 days so you can try to feed your family one meal in that time span. Poor is being in love with a girl and not knowing if that love stands a chance, but promising, somehow you will make Christmas happen, but there are less than 2 weeks until that stupid fucking holiday and the likelihood of keeping that promise without selling your soul is getting slimmer and slimmer. Poor is where the poet draws inspiration, but instead of masterpieces, each poem grows less poetic, and more pitiful. Poor is the tears that still catch me off guard when the moisture hits my cheek. Poor is the loneliness of sitting in filth while your roommates are at work, because once again you are unemployed. Poor is wondering when the fuck poor ends. Poor is wearing dirty clothes repeatedly as long as they smell decent because you don't have the change for the $1.50 wash + $1.50 dry. Poor is owing everyone something. Poor is not having anymore favors to call in. It's inadequacy, it's desolation. It's humbling.
cleansed to revive
a concave heart
convex in the mirrors
of a child's clown
playground of distortion
whisper my name
keep me in the frame
there's no way out
of this fixed full game
question her love
her guilt feeds my pain
never one to lose
why'd I ever enter
the labyrinth of lovers
hearts beating and folding
her on one end
me over the over
each step I smell her
her scent my guide
walls so high a secret
garden enclosed my soul.
© Sia Jane
"There was someone that I knew before
A heart from the past that I cannot forget
I let him take all my gold, and hurt me so bad
But now for you, I have nothing left of all my gold."
Bat For Lashes - All Your Gold