"Let's go out to play,"
you say,
and, in a spirulina flash
I'm there
The madness of our tongues
clicking and spinning
as we leap onto the
                  pavement            
running fast, now,
               holding hands
we make a dash for the forest
bound through
           tree-shadows
and soar through
             piles of leaves
I don't need to speak
for you to understand
and you only need to look
into my eyes
to know how much
I see
We lock gazes
bathe in
the halo
of our
beaming faces
and then
         we are off again
sprinting through
                 the  wilds
getting lost
             quite on purpose
dancing in our
            private body language
mixing up those ancient
and modern tongues
as one

12:02  in the night
and I miss the other 12:02-s
with you and Dylan’s blues
and no words sometimes
just with the drinks in which we were drowning, but we wouldn't let
each other die.

12:02 in the night
and I am trying to hold your voice somewhere
in the corner of my mind,
but it fades away with every second.
I'm trying to remember the way your left eye would smile
everytime after I’d kiss it,
the way you used to write my body down on random pieces of paper,
the nights in the bars,
the smoke of cigars,
the tissues on which we would write our love,
the morning coffee,
your body next to mine,
your dreams, my tears, your trains,
the station where I've waited for you
so many times,
the way your fingers would touch my skin,
the words,
the flowers,
your shirt covering my body in the morning,
your heart,
that night at the beach,
or the sunrises.
I'm trying to remember
the “you and I”,
the we

I'm trying to remember when did we give up
saving each other
from drowning to death.

in my dreams i see you sometimes
i am next to you and your eyes
are not sad
they just smile the way i saw them smiling
only a few times

when i look in the mirror
i hear your voice saying there was beauty in my
smile and in my big blue eyes
i was a little girl then
and many years have gone
and you have gone with them
but
i still remember your hugs
though it feels like decades since i was last in your arms
and your voice still echoes in my brain
i remember the last time we spoke you told me
to not cry,
to be strong
and i am trying to be.
i am.

i pretend that i am.

i see you in my dreams sometimes
and i am again a 6 years old little girl
running to you
when you open the front door
and waking up realising
i will see your face no more
it's the most painful story
and i cry sometimes
but you are not here
to open any door
and i am not 6 years old any more
and there's no beauty
in  my big blue crying eyes.

you left and took away your voice,
your dancing,
your bright face
your warm arms
and your kind eyes,
i am left only with a picture
i keep inside a box
behind the front door of my heart
and i want to go back,
to be your little girl again
and i know i'll never get to tell you
that I don't want to pretend any more
and I want you to tell me
that it's okay if i am not always strong
that it's okay to cry.

in many lines i have tried to write you
but i always do it the wrong way
and it seems impossible to describe
how much i miss you
and i need you
and
how much
i love you.

Eyes wide open,
mind tightly shut,
we play victims to the postman
slotting news and letters
where little light filters through,
only as he sees fit.

Grotesque, gross manufacturers
spewing out page after page after page
of page three scandals -
of rich brats waxing lyrical,
American hip-hop DUIs,
fat cats cat-fighting.

Media
breast-feeds her gullible men
and milks the misfortunes.

We are part of the orchestra -
synchronised puppets looking to our
Master
to tell us
how
to read the notes.

Outside
there are flimsy flyers
advertising freedom
that have morphed into paper-planes,
but are impenetrable of ignorant masses,
flitting around the heads of the blind -
like cartoon characters after
being beaten up by
fists.

It is injustice.
Peel the scales from your eyes
and open the flood-gates, let forth the criticism!

Ask why an American singer's ten minute jail sentence
is more important than an Afghan girl's sentencing to be gang-*****.
Ask who the ten percent of the South African population are that receive sixty percent of our gross national income and how to alter that socio-economic gap.
Ask what is to become of learners who pass with thirty percent and if that is even possible when books aren't being delivered to schools.
Ask where one can find manifestos instead of accusations from each political party.

Do not let them dictate
your truths as
CAPITALISED LETTERS
with no urgency.
Do not let them confine
your insight to the ink on a page.

We are worth more than glossy sensationalism.
We are worthy of urgent honesty, transparency and enlightenment -
herein lies true freedom.

The liberation of the mind.
The uncoiling fist of a freedom fighter revealing the truth held within.

Amandla awethu.

It's all part of a blaming game

All I need to do is save myself

And avoid any situations to blame others

longing to be liquid
a restless wanderer
let loose the lines
unfurled the main
with severed heart
set solitary course
on an uncaring sea

adrift
the lonely sailor
preserved remains
from his lips
the final note
love's lost
refrain

Together we laughed
Together we cried
Together we shared
Together we sighed  
And when we two part
Alone in this fantasy
Together we'll have
Our bittersweet memory

(C) Pixievic