zanele-tlali
On the path to discovery through the words expressed in my poetry. / i write my own poetry, hence why I call myself a spilled ink artist. / Happiness always. / I refuse to let society tell me how to rule my life. / Nonchalant and very melancholic with a touch of nostalgia. / It's all written in my pink journal. / I have a serious Benediction. Hippie. Free spirited. Lover of cigarettes. Nonconformist in the least. I'm just a willow in the wind, blowing in the opposite direction.
Where I go to escape.
When I begin to feel my body broken to the core and my mind shattered into pieces, this paper serves as my bandage and the words serve as my scars.
Words are my escape. I could write till the world ends. I write poetry when the mood strikes and the words just flow and I, unable to control the way my fingers move loosely stuck in a beautiful trance. Whenever I feel I need to get the feelings out, my writings and rumblings are how I escape reality. The words are the little sparkling stars that people think I would not have the courage to express.
My pink journal, filled with words and phrases help me to escape the violence that is life and it becomes a sanctuary where life's troubles and woes slowly drift away. Where I go to escape begins in my bedroom.
In my "haven" there are no rules , I simply say what I want, whenever I feel. My canvas becomes my paper and each word a small fragment contributing to the final image. It has the potential to create beautiful things out of scrap pieces I call my emotions. My ideas pour out on me with the intensity of water flowing through a newly broken dam.
The place where no rhyming, metaphors, or similes are needed. Just thinking, breathing, living and most importantly, the words.
My escape becomes a lens as It is a way to see the world from a slightly different perspective. My escape is part of an expression . When my family and friends turn their backs on me, poetry says: " take a pen and paper and write how you feel." Poetry is my therapist.
Poetry, for me, is all my thoughts. My heart belongs to poetry. It is my confidante, my best friend and the one thing I can turn to when everyone is sick of me. I tell poetry everything; and poetry tells me nothing. I am dependent on poetry.
My escape on pen and paper, emotions poured onto a page because poetry says: " what you feel is what you write, it helps to let it out." It is a perfect outlet for those who don't scream or like shout but rather engage in their silent cries.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Time and again we all get hurt and the truth is it takes long to heal. So yes, the world is full of people who are secretly nursing the wounds that were inflicted upon them. Some of these wounds they got from friends, some from strangers some from family and other wounds, believe it or not, are self-imposed.
We are often quick to get angry and we do not even think twice before we point fingers and blame others for the wounds they caused but what about the wounds we inflicted ourselves with? What do we then do upon the realisation of self-created hurt and pain we orchestrated ourselves?
There are times when one absent-mindedly digs themself a hole to fall in, sets themself a trap to be caught in or lays a bed of thorns to lay on. Reality only sinks in when the pain is felt and the pain one feels from what they did is way less compared to the hurt they get upon the realisation of the fact that they are the reason for that pain.
People hurt us, life goes on, we learn to get over it but what about when you hurt yourself???
The answer is quite simple: Forgive yourself but the implementation of the answer is a different story altogether.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Sanity
I don't even know
what that means anymore.
I don't even know
anything anymore.
I know for sure
its something i don't have.
Surely a sane person
does not shake
does not want to cry all the time
is perfectly capable of thinking straight
does not have
voices screaming at them
yelling to do things
i didn't think i wanted to do.
But if I'm hearing this
then maybe i want to go through with this
maybe i should
sanity
doesn't exist in me.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
I am a prisoner within my own mind
trapped between understanding the differences
in the definitions of sanity and being insane.
Words mankind created
but who decided what is truly
right or wrong
sane or insane
crazy and normal.
Your crazy and sane could be my normal
my normal could be your crazy and insane.
Who decided that even should be a normal
in a complex world of circumstances.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
A single word.
Short and sweet like the events that proceed the emotion
An emotion.
Invisible to all eyes
Except the one it is home to
Eyes that are as blue as the ocean
And yet as captivating.
They have to be mysterious, dark, deep and
Elusive.
Eyes the window into one's heart.
Not mine though.
My eyes lie
Deep enough to drown
To drown the emotion in
Dark enough to hide the tears that rain down
To wash away the pain
They are too blind to see the tears hidden in my dark brown eyes.
These are tears caused by pain.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
i'm feeling a vacancy
i don't feel whole
i just wish i could put my finger on it
but i don't know what it is
i've looked in every place I could seek
I tried to find the missing part of me
i can't explain this feeling.
feels like I'm on the wrong journey going in circles
something is missing
but what could it be?
can't somebody help me?
i'm missing a part of me
something is missing
show me what is missing.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC