I stare at the blank sheet of paper
And it stares back, a silent taunt
I grasp my pen like a talisman
Hoping to conjure words, not spells of doubt
My hand tightens around its slender form
As if to extract the last drop of life
Red ink bleeds out in anguish
A lifeblood spilled onto the page's white strife
I struggle to tell my story
As my mind and hand fail to synch
And words refuse to flow
The pen scratches, hesitant and slow,
A reluctant heartbeat in my hand's grasp.

In a mirror's honest gaze, I utter...
Dear Thomas,
This is my word to you
Belief is a feast of the eyes
And knowledge-
The power of the mind
But are you wise?
Yes! Til the doubt feasts on you
Like a rat slowly eating
The edges of your life
Taking away everything-
Confidence, wisdom and intelligence,
Defecating trails of struggle and pain
Leaving traces of misery.
What a way to learn.

To the future me...
Believe in yourself
To the past, it was a good lesson,
In the present,
Like a farmer, you stand
in the middle of the field-
That looks everything like your life
Watching... It is a filmstrip,
Detailed images here and there
A few parched areas,
Dying blades of grass
Hopeless crops darted across the field,
But there you are - standing
And hoping for a chance of rain,
A miracle perhaps-which you doubt-
Questioning,
'Will it quench the dry earth?'

Alas, your sweat provides little moisture
To survive a few struggling blades of grass
That humbly open their thin arms
To receive a few drops of life.
They look hopeful, and grateful
So should you.

Lost and found,
Who thought it still exists?
A place of treasure and fortune,
Where lost things are found
Where my memories lay restless
Like my thoughtful mind
As I sit in a chair-and stand up
And sit again-and stand again
And start pacing aimlessly
darting across the room
Like my thoughts would
Across a void dark space.

Nostalgia-friend or foe,
Still trying to discern
Which one would it be.
I think of the good, bad, nice,
sweet-and bitter moments.
Gathered, like my memories
Packed like clothes in a suitcase
And from scruffy folding,
their texture is wrinkled
Like the skin of an old man.

I rummage through-searching
looking and hoping and wishing and praying
to find a perfect memory,
But all I stumble on,
Are moments I try to forget,
Memories of pain, and suffering
The pain of being lost-
and not knowing where you belong.
The pain of being selfless,
for people who never cared.
But with these thoughts, I gather myself
Questioning my thought-ridden mind.
Those that see me, think, a fool,
A madman who converses with himself,
But I had reasons.

Aha-I exclaim after finding the 'one'
I touch it delicately-but "don't **** it"
A voice whispers,
"Don't hold it by the head"
As the Ndebele proverb says,
'Inhlwa ayibanjwa ngekhanda'
A termite should not be held by its head
But what's that... Where... Too late, it's gone, lost,
Like a beautiful memory that slips my mind
each time I get distracted.