kingdom-mbuso-khoza
I'm a work in progress. I'm a fan of philosophy, psychology and poetry. Its as a result of the influence my interests have had on my thinking that I've begun to question everything in a way similar to that of Rene Descartes in his meditations. Only, I have no intention to prove the existence of a god through philosophical means but am simply trying to find truth and meaning in my own existence. I've recently become atheist to that effect.
One can't help but doubt -
The bulb in a dark room -
We blindly stumble in and out of each other nightly
Running away into mirrors of whence we came
Alone
After all, silence could be the screaming of Death's victims filtering into the abyss of an unreturned hello
But we'd never hear it : only feel its cold feet
Already gone
Already gone
The floor never looks cleaner than when we neglect the mop
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
First it was dark - pitch black
But we knew no fear - just warmth
Twas a brief 9 months
Eviction through the vertical horizon put an end to it ;
When they cut the cord they made me poor
Breast milk was always a compromise,
Formula the equivalent of baby shots and I was weaned from even that.
Dry bread, that's all our lives are and always will be.
We go from choking on silver spoons to eating daddy's fists because he was born poor.
The best sleep has no dream - only gentle beats break the ambient silence.
Why do I wake up everyday on an empty stomach?
Why beg or banter : none living have your placenta
And now
Neither do you
Dry bread dry bread, each day eroding by a crumb
We smile through gritted teeth -
Next to you we're all just filthy bums
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
Cain's offering
Every which way were thrown seedling words of your departure
Even unto this arid soil - windswept of all its spoils.
"Green pigment on my thumb" at the eleventh hour
-"Sorry?"
"Turns seeds into forest" (Gump)
Though some things stand to change
What damage can be made
We'll suffer only if she stays
Daylight kisses grew the roots but
The farmer bruised the fruit
-With manure from a foreign origin-
Choosing to farm in a place of religion
Though his neglect of their forest
Was met with no protest
Broken twigs of dodgy discourse
Caught the flame of rising remorse
Every oak reduced to ash and smoke
Left only a single clover
- of four petals -
Cruel irony : he knew his luck was over
So he plucked it up with flaming hands
Teary-eyed when he began :
"She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me..."
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC