When I go back more then a decade to the thought of my feelings in that exact moment of ulamite knowing of how much love I have for you. It takes me back as it slowly brakes me down, into this lovely moment

As I try to ignore this feeling in my face, as if the realizations is a relapse. The feeling painfully manifests in my nose as the pressure releases and I accept it all over again  the warm wet feelings slowly move down my face, into my  own comforting bitter sweet tears.

It is always within me even with his lack of presence. The love is still here.

Surviving the day is worthy of merit, but once you can make it to bed, it's a ******* victory!

I'm sorry that I thought you were perfect for me.

I'm sorry that I thought you were capable of loving me, the way I needed to be loved.

I'm sorry I thought you respected me.

I'm sorry that I finally trusted a man again, and in doing so opened up to you of all people.

I'm sorry for the next woman that finds out too late that you, are incapable of loving a women.

Making people do what we believe is best for us.
Control.
In a state of wanting what we think we need.
Limited.
How is it possible to know what we need while so blinded by our egos hunger?
Selfish.

31 | 31 Poems for August

(Written with Naledi Tshikota)

Write me a sonnet, point dozens of Cupid’s arrows to my heart if you dare to awaken it.
Tune into your inner Shakespeare, fantasize us as Bonnie and Clyde if you care to spend time in it.
Recreate the Titanic, recreate it with the ending of The Notebook if you can bear to believe in it.
And if that doesn’t work, cast me to sleep like the Romeo you are and let me awake next to your lifeless flesh and dagger as I pierce my soul with it.

Write me a sonnet, let every single one of those fourteen lines bleed with emotion.
Leave The Notebook next to my notebook and become the protagonist of my dreams.
Think like the wind and attain the kind of power that’ll allow you to ******* away on any given day.
Your presence keeps transforming our thoughts into beautiful poetic paintings, Basquiat and Picasso would’ve been proud.

Write me a sonnet, silence every impurity that does awaken my love.
Summon the essence of my soul for the taking of your unforsaken hands and make Mona Lisa cry sacred tears of joy.
Create simplistic glimpses that only our superior beings can understand, only then can I unleash my undying emotion towards your uncontested universe.

Write me a sonnet, the kind that will make me realise that your heart isn’t filled with any doubt.
The day I realised that words could touch you, I wanted to become a poem.
The kind of poem that Maya Angelou’s ink always dreamt about.
The taste of your smile still lingers on the edges of my lips.
I see galaxies in your eyes, it must be in the way I love you like I do.
I could’ve settled for less but I don’t want anyone else but you.

Write me a sonnet that speaks to the heart of my mind.
Because I always hear your heartbeat when I think about you.
Write me a sonnet that intertwines our inner intuitions.
A sonnet that makes you believe in shooting stars if you’re into wishing.
And finally that captures the very essence of the unknown soul that’s unspoken of.
Because it’s within your golden silence that I hear the loudest cry.