A beautiful soul he had — always spent his nights alone with his pen and paper. He would always make his pen bleed beautiful words.

He wore black, because of depression. Never wanted anyone's sympathy, but his own presence. His heart was shattered — his soul was out of his body — wandering searching for a place of comfort.

He spoke the truth into existence as he never found closure because of the hardships and heartaches which never molded him, but broke him and changed his entire sunny days to grey skies.

He's a breathless somebody, he's turned into a statue. All the insults have made him look like a skeleton. He can't move nor say any word — he's a voiceless nobody; fossil.

By: Ofentse Tsie