I miss the afternoon walks at the beach.
Tight skin from salty air.
Grubby feet and fingers from the beach sand.
The sound of peace, tranquility and solace.
The smell of ancient infinity.
It did not taste this bitter.

I learnt patience from the fishermen.
I will therefore hold o to it,
I will live my way into 2016,
For I will be with you.

I sometimes want to run away,
Not from anyone in particular.
Everything.
I feel like I took my time to enter this world,
Then I started running thinking it had left me.
I should've been still by the mountainside,
But I chased puddles down the waterfall,
Maybe I am Jill.
I'm trippin on life.

I carry a prison in my veins that I pray would one day riot
A  fire for every experience,
And an obsession for freedom ,
That has pushed me to a nomadic point of madness
That both dazzles and dizzies me.*

-Ntokozo "Jozi" Majozi

I am a poem
I am a tattooed gospel music loving non conformist who
believes that Christ is just an excuse not to be responsible.
I am an antagonist who believes that God is a constant
conversation with the world and that whoever created the
conspiracy of good versus evil was a genius.
I am descendant of the stories encrypted on the Pyramids of Egypt;
I am the physical manifestation of God, the daughter of Man sent
by the creator with all might, faith and wisdom.
I am the melanin woman who walked barefoot,not because she
was uncivilized, she had a spiritual connection with the soil.
Noble and humbled, I have been shipped around the earth to
mother and father the restless and paranoid.
My teachings are the same redefined theories that provide
content to modern civilization and technology.
I am the blue prints of what is being sold back to me.
With this knowledge came the courage to redefine my self.
These days I find myself within insane verses that ooze with
contempt, cast into a life in protest, constantly contesting my
compromised legacy.
So I live on the battle fields armed with weapons of this world,
fatefully fighting my way out.
Trying to relocate to a place where man found no need to
count the days and years of his life.
I refused to play a part in the rat race of degrees and perfect
grades,for wisdom is more precious that gold.
I fight to stay alive because I am a product of war, while all I
want is to be your friendly neighbor.

No one can see the pain in my eyes,
I guess my smile is t0o blindin
i am burstin 0ut with laughter,
meanwhile inside i am shakin and breakin
they are with me every day,
so they claim they are my friends and kn0w me,still
n0 0ne can see the pain in my eyes
i have hidden behind this wall f0r s0me time n0w,
when y0u make pain l0ok this g0od it never wears 0ut
it helps t0 keep life's h0rr0rs at bay
i guess my pretence is just all t0o real
it all adds up,it is my fault,always was,and n0w
no 0ne can see the pain in my eyes
i guess i can f0ol anyb0dy but myself
i am here fightin a l0sin battle
the th0ught 0f it eliminates and numbs my tiny bit 0f f0und j0y
i gasp f0r air and silently pray f0r strength t0 f0rge a smile
they never seize t0 l0ok at me,but
n0 0ne can see the pain in my eyes
i remind myself everyday that i am a str0ng being,
0r is that just me tryin t0 c0nvince myself 0nce m0re?
Because s0meh0w my tears have a way 0f tellin me 0therwise
i try t0 st0p them, but the m0re they keep c0min
silencin me,suff0catin me,tearin me apart better yet
n0 0ne sees the pain in my eyes
i cann0t seem t0 f0rget,but
i have f0rgiven myself,i have f0rgiven him t0o
alth0ugh s0metimes in the darkness 0f the night,
my dreams will transp0rt me back t0 that sadness
then i will need t0 wake up and learn 0nce again,h0w t0 f0rgive and be str0ng
n0 0ne can see the pain in my eyes
but i kn0w f0r a fact God is always there
and i feel His unexpected m0ment with me
His s0n did n0t jus wake up and r0se t0 the Heavens,
He w0ke up with a place deep inside 0f me
a sacred place created just f0r me and Him
He wh0 gave me life keeps me alive.

I want a man that will make me feel special and second to none.
I want a man that will understand me.
I want a man who will know I am more than just a pretty face and a curvy shape.
I want a man to keep me hot like a candle,
and hug me tight like Diesel Jeans.
That's all I want,is that too much to ask for?
Is that the world?

I want to know what kind of man you are beneath
the surface.
I want to understand what makes your heart beat faster
and what you love. What makes you mad, and why it has
that power over you.
I want to learn if your anger is hot and quick like mine, or
a lingering coldness that freezes those who invoke your
wrath. Do you forgive them when the red mist subsides,
or do you hold a grudge through all of eternity?
I wish I could know how you see me through those quiet
eyes of yours. I want you to tell me if you long to stroke
my hair as we drift off to sleep, or if it’s my curves that
your hands ache for. I wonder if you would message me
goodnight before bed, so that I would never close my eyes
without knowing that I was loved. Perhaps you would
expect my heart to know that already, simply by the way
your face lights up at the sight of mine.
What do you dream of when you close your eyes? Do you
sleep peacefully until the light dapples your skin through
the blinds, or do the tigers prowl around your head,
leaving you shivering in fear in the darkness?
When you are lonely, do you ever think about my smile, or
the way that I always know how to still the demons that
scream inside you? I wonder if I am still vivid in your
awareness, or a distant memory now; a spectre bathed in
the gentle lustre of nostalgia.
Do you chase sunsets or sunrises? I love both. Does the
promise of a shimmering new dawn appeal to you more
than the glow of another day closing in a riot of colour? I
wonder where peace finds you. Will you drink hot tea with
me as the sun blazes through the horizon, reminding us
of the fleeting nature of this life? I think I would like that.
I want to learn if you prefer the bright crackle of a
burning log fire, snuggled up in blankets against the cold,
or the way that the sun plays upon warm limbs, making
them glow golden in the afternoon light. Is it summer that
brings a smile to those lips I covet, or would you
rather turn your face up to taste the snowflakes as they
fall?
I watch to see if you curse the fact that you cannot get to
work in the snow, or if you roll up your sleeves joyfully to
build a snowman. And if you do, I notice whether you give
him a stone mouth so that he might smile upon the
children that wave as they pass him by.
Do you ever fantasise about losing yourself, out there, in
the world? Do you seek the quiet solitude of a wooden log
cabin on the edge of a lake, or do you prefer the lights
and glamour of cocktail dresses in a fancy room full of
raucous laughter?Where do you want to go? What do you
want to see?
Do you hear it when adventure calls out your name and
more importantly, do you answer?
I want to know where you hide, when the world becomes
too much to bear.
Where do you take your freedom?
Is there space for another in your haven, or can I follow
you only so far, then settle patiently to await your return
to me; the reunion all the sweeter for your absence.
See, I wanna know if you have hurt people. Did their tears
rain on your heart, each drop a sharp stinging torment? I
try to imagine if you wear a mask of hardness in the face
of another’s pain, or if you are gentle as you ask for
forgiveness. Do you bleed through another’s wounds?
Can you?
Tell me how you have broken someone you loved, and
whether you were able to fix them again. Did they love
you still when the pieces were put back together? What
horrors live in the bleakest corners of your soul? What do
you think about when you go there?
I want to know the very worst of you.
Share with me the music that plays in your heart, and
whether you dance to the beat of your own drum.
Show me the colour of your love. If you could splash its
brightness onto a waiting canvas, would it burn with
passionate reds and oranges, or would it run still and
strong in a cool turquoise calm?
Tell me if you kiss softly, your lips singing mine a gentle
lullaby, or whether they would rage intently,
scorching new pathways to my heart with a desire that
refuses be stilled. I want to feel it either way.
Show me if you want a sweet girl, or a ***** one. Or a
little of each. What makes you cry out in ecstasy? Is it a
woman that makes you laugh until your stomach hurts, or
one whose beauty takes your breath away with a single
look? Do you look for the quirky ones, perhaps? The ones
who are too easily overlooked, the hidden treasures?
Tell me, would you risk it all for love? Would you fight for
what you truly want, or would you let it slip away into
nothing, never knowing what might have been, because
you never told her that your heart beat only for her? Did
you ever realise she was waiting for you to fight for her?
Will you watch someone else love her because you were
too afraid to be vulnerable with her?
Will you settle for next best, the girl you could maybe
grow to love someday, instead of the one that haunts your
thoughts today? Is that enough for you? Maybe it is.
Could you live with yourself knowing that she got away?
Tell me about a time that you cried until you couldn’t
breathe anymore. Or where you lived through a day where
you prayed for the sweet release of death. Did you make
it through? I have been there. Has your heart been broken
into a million tiny pieces and, if it has, has it made you
hard? Or are you are still open to the beauty that the
world holds for you?
Show me your pain and I will show you mine. I hope it
does not scare you. It has helped me to grow.
I want to know if you talk to the glittering stars above us,
and which one is special to you. What do you think
happens when we die? Do we join their shining ranks in
heaven or is there nothing left for us? Are you afraid of
death? I am. Will you hold my hand if I leave you first? If
you whisper to me that love knows no boundaries, not
even death, will you mean it?
Tell me about your childhood. I want to know the way
your mother’s hair smelled when you crawled exhausted
into her lap, and the way your bedroom looked when you
were 10. Did your father cry when you curled a tiny fist
around his finger for the very first time? I bet he did. I
want to know all the people that you have loved
throughout your life, so that I might love them through
you and with you.
Do you write? Do you draw? I want to know whether you
ache to capture my face with your pencil, preserving the
wonder that lingers softly there. Do you like to express
yourself through words, or action best? Will your hands
illustrate your story as you speak and will I know that you
are lying from the way your lips tremble gently as the
words tumble guiltily from them?
What is your favourite book? Explain to me why it
enraptures you so. Please? It tells me a lot about you. I
love the way people cry when their favourite character
breaks their heart, as though they are an old friend to be
adored. Who is yours? I will seek them out and befriend
them to understand why they have moved you so much.
Lend me your secrets. I’ll keep them safe and I’ll return
them when my picture of you is complete. Whisper into
my ear so that only us two may share them. Do you
believe in magic? I do, now that I have met you.
Tell me your story, for it might well become part of my
story. Let me in. Let me see you. All of you.
I want to know you.*

-Jojo Roden

How do you walk alongside someone with locked pinkies without having the notion of them being both your tongues or legs?
Or when a single breath can't be taken without you hoping their next exhale will be your inhale?
Maybe these locked pinkies are a promise symbol,
That we have forever to do all that.
For now,these fireflies are my shooting stars.

Burdened by the pain that was left from my past
lovers,
I had to lose myself.
Creating a list of impossibilities to avoid the
reality of life and love,
I had to lose myself.
Pretending that I could **** without emotions or
strings attached,
I had to lose myself.
Perpetrating as an uninhibited woman abusing
my temple,
I had to lose myself.
My past had created a new me,
A tainted me,
A me who could not allow a real man to love me,
So,
I had to lose myself so I could love you better.
Now I can appreciate your love for me,
and the fact that you love me flaws and all.
I see the real me through your eyes, I've found
myself.

They can't see when they're being loved,
because they've become accustomed to being told,
being promised.
They can't see it.

I've found no new woman,
as you'd like to surmise.
But the next one
who braids
my mind with my heart
won't get away,
not even if she's a nun.
The next one like you
I'll lock in a room
near the sky and there
will I kiss her until
she is certain
a thousand butterflies
one by one
are lighting
all over her body.*

-Donal Mahoney

I was thinking about whoever ends up being with me is
going to have to contend with the fact that I’m gonna write about everything that they do,
and there’ll be poetry everywhere,
there’ll be haikus about the way they roll up their jeans in the morning,
and toothpaste sonnets on the bathroom mirror
and they’ll probably wake up with stanzas inked on their chest
and holy hell,
this person had better find me cute otherwise it’s gonna get annoying real fast being with the brown version of Taylor Swift.

I...
But...
Could have..
Should have...
Did not...
Will...
Why...
Cannot...
Tomorrow...
Not now...
One day...
Wait...
Maybe...
What if...
Do not...
What about...

I want a Sunday kind of love—one that is as
comforting and warm as my favorite soft robe tied
tight around my ******* on a foggy morning.
The kind of morning that licks at my consciousness and
makes me still feel as if I’m dreaming—that hazy blur
where reality and my burning desire collides.
A love that wakes up with the sun, lips against my
shoulder smelling of last night’s whiskey kisses, strong
hands pulling me close, nestled into the soft
voluptuousness of my ******* and grabbing hold of your
dreams, the fit of an arm around my waist.
Our Saturday clothes full of adventure and sunlight will
be left carelessly crumpled on the floor of my room, little
bits of leaves and dirt scattered about—now nothing more
than just artifacts of our late night walk in the rain, but
still smelling like rusty promises and a desire so hot it
will singe your fingertips as they slowly undress me.
I want a Sunday kind of love.
Although you've been ******* me for a while now—
first my skepticism and sarcasm fell from my shoulders
like heavy stones to the bottom of a cold rushing river; I
stepped out of my insecurities and fears while you held
my hand and that now seem to have been misplaced
somewhere along the way.
My masks of who and what I should be that I wore for far
too long now collect dust and seem like nothing but sad
old memories that I have no need to cling to any longer.
Just when I will believe I couldn’t bare any more of
myself to you, you’ll take your hands and draw the soft
blue cotton of my dress up around my hips, my waist,
exposing my *******, over my head tossing it recklessly
aside ––and suddenly, there will be nothing left to hide
behind.
And so we will fall into the light of a thousand stars, the
dreams from the nightmares that woke us for far too long,
the sleepless nights and the breath choking in the back of
our throats, the words that burn to be said—all of it will
disappear into that one moment that will be caught in
between our lips as they meet.
And the night will last until the sun wakes us with her
light through heavy tender kisses, scratches along
ripened exposed skin deep with a passion and a fervent
rocking desire that will leave us both breathless.
It will be a night of sweet strawberry whiskey, the haze of
smoke circling around our heads and opening up our
eyes. It will be fiery grilled peaches sweetened with rose
honey and melted vanilla ice cream, it will be a million
moments that all will come down to one.
The moment where a Saturday Night turns into a Sunday
Morning.
I want a Sunday kind of love.
Last night’s laughter will still echo in the back of our
throats, but we will have lost our voices to the softness of
a Sunday morning. Barely speaking above a whisper I
will trace all of my secrets onto your skin with my lips,
waking you from your sleep as I press my bottom against
you, not needing words, because you will already know
what I want.
My mouth will seek out your neck, my fingertips tracing
the steps of a thousand journeys that have finally brought
you to me, and I’ll take you in my mouth, saying good
morning to you in the only way that I know how.
My bedroom hair will be messy and tangled, nothing but a
fallen halo of ***** nonsense falling over and around you
as I move, daring you to ever leave this bed.
Soft heirloom quilts holding the dreams of tomorrows in
shades of blues and greens like my eyes, but not nearly
as deep––or as passionate—especially when you’re the
one I’m looking at.
Mottled light through the shades creating warm shadows
across our skin, leaving the softness of bed wearing
nothing as I toss a smile over my shoulder and I leave
you lying in bed wondering how you ever got here, and
yet at the same time, how could you possibly ever leave.
I’ll bring you a heavy mug of steaming coffee smelling
like the exotic hills of Peru and tasting almost as sweet
as me, and though we will have every intention of
drinking it, the mugs will sit growing cold, as at first we
will laugh until I begin moving against you once again,
and you unable and unwilling to resist will come to play
with me once more.
I want a Sunday kind of love.
Eventually we will rise, and I’ll put on your worn t-shirt I
picked up from the floor—just because I can—and,
barefoot with music playing, I’ll make us pancakes.
Swaying my hips as I mix and fry them over a hot griddle,
the oil spitting and biting at my bare skin, just like I’ve
done a thousand mornings before—except this time I’ll be
making them for you.
We’ll sit in the dappled sunlight and have breakfast, the
air smelling like bacon and fresh coffee, and I’ll watch
your eyes as you see the maple syrup trickle down my
chin and land on the rise of my ******* begging to be
licked off by your hungry mouth.
I’ll ask you to leave the dishes where they are as I say I’ll
be in the shower if you want to join me—although there
was never a question as to if you would.
Because this is a Sunday kind of love; one that begs to
stay undressed and tasted slowly, one that lingers on our
lips long after it's passed.
I want a Sunday kind of love.

I'm listening to your pain whilst we sit in silence,
Shared solitude our comfort when our hearts speaks in
amplified beatings.
I build bridges you will burn with no second thought,
Then I build more they stood a while this time,
And you negotiate with your heart how to break mine this
time,
Whether your hands can make me cry this time
But you see,
Love was not my first dancer,
It's my heart that can carry the weight of the world
I've carried your tears and your fears like they mattered,
I've traded a million hearts just to have your broken one,
I've wasted a hundred tries to see you smile my way,
I'll spend a thousand more to make you feel my love,
So while you break bridges with your bare hands,
I'll break your walls with random caring.

The people I want to cry to about the people I'm crying about are the people I'm crying about.
They balance the ground I walk on.
Tomorrow I shall hang my pillow to dry like it's the last time.

I don’t know how you like your coffee on misty
mornings.
I don’t know which rooftop you kick your favorite
sneakers off to climb, what haunts your thoughts at night
or what makes you want to stand up and fight.
But I do know you—and I know your heart.
You are the woman who zips her own dress up for work
every morning.
The woman laughing under the rain
without anyone to help you jump over puddles.
The
woman who runs up stairs and double checks locks
before ending every day.
The woman curled up under
sheets, in the corner of a bed meant for two.
I know you because we share the same heart.
We all arrived here through different roads, different
highways and different dirt paths.
Some of us are bruised.
Some of us are spotless.
How we got here doesn’t matter
—only how we’re tied together.
We are the women who spend our sweatpants-wearing
Sunday afternoons alone.
The women who treat ourselves
to fancy Valentine’s Day dinners.
The women who buy
ourselves carnations after making mistakes.
We are the women who’ve decided to bravely put love on
the back burner.
We know we’ll one day be mothers of
beautiful children who’ll share the same clusters of curly ***** coils on their heads.
We know there’ll come a time
when we’ll look into someone’s eyes and see a reflection
of our dreams.
We never for a second doubt that we deserve all this or
that it’ll happen.
But we know that now is not that time,
and we accept it with grace and patience.
Couples in black and white romantic movies make us
smile without wincing.
We sing along to cheesy ballads
on radios knowing that one day, one of them will be sung
for us.
We go to sleep every night happy no one’s taken
our minds hostage.
We aren’t waiting.
We aren’t still, or
frozen with hope.
We are in a constant state of motion,
dedicating everyday to ourselves and the goals our souls
ache for.
To the women with warm hearts and cold hands,
I hope
you know how brave you are .
Solitude can get deafening sometimes,
but self-sufficiency is a trait even warriors have trouble
mastering.
You are your own commander, fighting
frostbite, fidgeting in your mittens. Never apologize for the
fires you light.
Carry our flag with you and know you’ll never be alone.
Beside you stands an army of women marching to the
same heartbeat in bedrooms that are oceans and
countries away,
carrying the same promises to
themselves throughout their days.
Who never allow anyone to tell them what they should have, or who they should need.
And never let anyone tell them when love should, or
should not be.*

-Naomi Hon

Dear Frustrated,
These are the things I wasn’t brave enough to say to you,
even in text.
I didn’t lose my phone, or your number or track of time. I
can assure you there is no message mysteriously stuck
in my outbox, just waiting to be sent. There was no family
emergency and I’m not just “working through some stuff”
right now. I am not too busy at work, or out of credit and I
have good service.
I have made the regrettable, yet conscious decision not to
text you anymore.
I have all but convinced myself that being open and
honest would only hurt your feelings, even though I know
it’s a lie. I know that what I’m doing is not fair, but right
now, my fear is stronger than my guilt.
I never set out to hurt you, but suddenly, I can see no
other ending to this story.
You aren’t imagining things.
There was a time when things were good, even great. We
did connect. I did really like you.
The smiles, the jokes, the intimate moments—they were
all real.
But then, something happened that made me realize
we’re not quite compatible.
I wish I could tell you that it’s not your fault—that there’s
nothing you could have done differently—that the problem
really isn’t you.
The problem is that I believe we want different things. I
can’t quite put my finger on it, but in my mind, we see the
world through different glasses, we speak a different
language and we live in different futures.
And while I may be able to make you happy right now,
I realize that I won’t be able to make you happy in the
long run.
I know you must think I’m an a**hole for what I’m doing—
that I’m stonewalling you because I don’t care about your
feelings. In truth, I’m simply scared. My emotions make
me so uncomfortable, that when I try to express myself,
my words get tangled.
I am worried that if I attempt to tell you how I feel, I will
accidentally say the wrong thing and offend you. If only I
was willing to endure that one, slightly awkward
conversation, I’d save you months of frustration.
Instead, I have chosen to withdraw.
I will lock up my feelings, as I always do and pretend they
don’t matter. I will ignore my guilt and tell myself, this is
for the best.
I know it’s too late, but, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for putting my own emotional welfare ahead of
yours.
I’m sorry for dragging you behind me while I try to make
my cowardly escape.
I’m sorry for making you feel like you’re going crazy.
And finally, I’m sorry for ever giving you a reason to doubt
yourself.
The way I have tried to deal with this situation
is proof that you deserve better.
You deserve someone who is willing to say the wrong
thing, to have the awkward, necessary conversations.
You deserve someone who isn’t afraid of their emotions,
who is willing to be vulnerable and share themselves
completely.
More than anything, you deserve to be happy. And while
no one person can ever give that to you, you deserve
someone who is willing to do whatever it takes to help
you find your happiness within.

Great Goddess
In fertile essence you were shaped
Upon your head
ambiguous braids were draped;

******* as mountains
Belly the great giver of life
Monthly cycle an ocher fountain
Created from ancestral strife

Venus of Willendorf
30,000 year old
Archetype Matron
of Mother Earth
Corpulent bestower
Of genesis and birth.*

- Amy Green