Tell my favourite teacher that I'm still her darling boy
who used to look up to the rainy sky, miss home and cry
still as cunning and playful but now prose and poetry are the toy
and if she saw me play she would wonder and sigh
at that boy who made everything he touched filthy
for I find crisp clean pages and on them throw mud of words
who's still of indifference, condemned and guilty
Her little boy whose fascination was chasing butterflies and birds
tell my teacher I'm still her child, still not biting my tongue
but regurgitating all the bitter truth the world detests
busting in rage at hypocrisy and puffing pride out my lungs
I'm still bearing the eminent enmity my bluntness begets
tell her I'm still firmly clinging to the slipping dreams she instilled
barely floating, with waves of reality attempting to drown my talent and have her killed
*tell her I'm still doing pieces out of my daily struggles and torments
and posting them on social media, I'm that brave
even attempting to do double Shakespearean sonnets
writing about my illusive dreams and the unreachable I crave
someone tell my favourite teacher that I'm still her son
going against the currents of injustice instead of flowing with the river
taking the bull by his horns, doing whatever I can
yet sometimes giving in to detestable ways,corroding my liver
tell Victorious that I'm still impossible to comprehend
loving fictional writings while holding my classwork in contempt
why loath lectures,but love learning,why not pretend?
not even university education could be exempt
I think about my teacher everyday,she's still my Mama
but I hardly talk to her for my life's preoccupied with karma's drama

O noble muse, where perched thou singing?
And in what ear, upon what summer's day?
When our bard begot this, his least good play?
Your graces to some other were bringing,
To prose and verse with beauty adorned;
For, on sitting down to read this once again,
I see well why this one is scarce performed:
For to read it causes me less joy than pain.
My worthy bard, it is as I did fear:
Of all your plays of ******* and kings equal,
There have been none as good or fine as Lear!
What madness prompted you to try a sequel?
An orchard of fine works you have begotten,
But of your tragic fruit this one is rotten.

You are like that of a blazing ember,
bright as the sun, as temperamental,
as an uncontrollable summer fire.
The flame, the spirit, resides in your eyes.
The inferno of your golden locks burn
a home in my perishing mortal heart.
My love is so deep, I cannot return
to a time when you were not my sweetheart.
My dear, you are as wild as the sea,
as powerful as a queen on her throne,
if only you could behold what I see,
these are mere words, but it is all I own.
You are my fire-heart, my golden girl.
You are my beacon of light in the dark.

Enamored of the possible, and racing,
  Through a winding maze of endless choices,  
  Daunted by the obstacles we're facing, and 
  Dizzied by the clamor's many voices,

Shackled by a heavy chain of causes,
  Binding us to all we've ever known,
  The many paths before us give us pause, as
  We struggle to define which are our own,

Within a world that's not of our own making
    We anxiously await the day we'll find,
    A journey worthy of our undertaking, so
    That purpose in our lives may be defined, but
    
Perhaps our fate condemns us all to wander, and
       Our lives are merely mysteries to ponder

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.

We were foolish to judge the sky by the stars
to believe each other without a doubt
to forget the wounds and play blind to the scars
to take on emotion with a silent shout

we were crazy to ignore caution
and foolishly get overtaken
by flooding electric emotions
compromise the mind and have reason forsaken

We were mad to believe we'd not end
that we would just flow like springs
that the rivers of our affection wouldn't dry or the roads bend
that we'd always have the warmth passion brings

We were insane to trust each other so deep
with treasures like Hearts and promises we couldn't keep

shall i compare thee to a summers day?
i admire shakespeare for being such a yaknow, writer
and i wish i could equate to his flowing of words and make hidden messages between the metaphors
i try my hardest
but amogst the other angsty teens who bleed tears and numbness
it's hard to compare thee to a summers day when thats what everyone is doing
but it's so true
you are the flowers that bloom out of my ribcage after winter has been in my lungs for some time
and you are the sunshine that peaks through to warm my heart
you are the summer rain and wind that makes me flutter like the butterflies in the south
but you are also a human
and sometimes you turn to winter
or spring
or fall
but i love thee til mine death
and theres something poetic about the old english
this modern english makes me feel less of a romantic lover and writer all together
i want to compare thee to cold bedsheets after a sweaty day or the splash of water onto my feet when the ashpalt gets too hot for touch
i want you to be my metaphor for everything
i want it to be simple and complicated and use really big words because im pretentious
but i just want to love you
and as we progress into the robot era
i still sit here writing my love for you
bleeding for you
this is not romeo and juliet
and i never really know what im doing
im actually quite a mess
and this doesnt make sense
but the spark of light for my love of you will never dim to darkness
and i will hold the candle to the heavens as an offering for you to be the eternal light
this is rambling on and on probably
but i love thee
je t'aime
ich liebe dich
i love you
do you compare me to a summer day?
am i colorful like a meadow and soft like a cloud?
am i your greatest living, breathing, loving figuruative language?
or am i another hopeless (hopeful) romantic that is another page in a story that you wont speak of or analyze enough to understand
will you skim me?
i sometimes doubt your knowledge of love for me
i wonder if it's surface love
or if it pulls your heart to your stomach to ache when my touch and laugh is unavailable
i wonder if you mourn at the thought of my pain
and if romeo and juliet is a plausable scenerio
ha ha- joking
i sometimes doubt
but i know thee loves
and im sorry that im like this
but at the same time im not
anyways,
and yes, anyways is a word (at least to me)
(english breaks its own rules all the time)
i shall compare thee to a summers day
and thee shall be loved

There's a bird in the sky that's weeping
a cold none seems comfortable with
there's a stinging cold of despair sweeping
so bad every smoker yearns for ****

there's a light that's behind the dark
battling to find her way to the shine
to sublime the monsters that lurk
and color with joy them that whine

there's a road that goes and never ends
there's a peace seated in the laps of war
a fatal enemy the world gladly befriends
because fairness and justice are no more*

there's an innocent cob wounded under a palm tree
a graceful wounded calf called my country

A Rose by any other name is said to still retain its scent:
A sweet perfume that fills the room to all of our content.
And though this little musing contains poetic form,
When truth is told, I am not sold, for I know there to be thorns.
And if known instead for these pricking fiends
--and not its aromatic petals--
Then perhaps the rose would not be love's flowered vessel.
And the fragrant sweetness we attribute to its structure
Would cease to be a welcomed whiff and the Rose would lose its luster.