a walk to the moon
under the stars
a rope in hand
a small note
left at home

she said "i'm broken",

i told her "but you can still be a collage"

i write
for souls
that are
not afraid
to tattoo
their thoughts
on pieces
of paper
with
blood-stained ink

I'm the one with the golden horn
Speaking the truths of our forefathers buried under our feet
Having died digging gold for the white man

I believe I was born to teach
Teach the Afrikan child of their history
For to face your future
You must embrace your past

They labeled us the dark continent
After they had forced us to dig up the glistening black coal beneath our homes
Which covered our bare backs like the oil they were draining from under our homes
Our homes they took us away from and ran to the ground
To make way for their stone and steel castle

We still work like slaves we once were
To buy back our gold, silver, oil and souls

They buried the idea of us being nothing but slaves so deep in our subconscious
We have lost our conscience and fallen for their ways
We see a fellow child of the soil as a nuisance when they are begging for scrapes of food and warm clothes

They placed Afrika's offspring behind metal bars with the apes, hyenas, gazelles and watched from the distance with crocodile tears at the suffering "aborigines"

Listen to the song in the wind
Your ancestors are singing underneath the oceans they were thrown in
Your forefathers are singing underneath the soil beneath your step
Listen
Child.

i once loved a girl. memories

suicide note:
to the one that left

*in you i lost my reason to live

last night i managed to write something in the book you bought me
your name has never looked so pretty

on my wrist and inner thigh
it evoked feelings i thought i had lost

fresh blood trickled down to the floor
i wondered if you still knew my name

i promised myself i wouldn't do this again
or remembered the colour of my eyes

between my heart and my brain, one betrayed me
and how shiny they were when you left

this is the last time i'm ever picking up an pen and paper
the lies i tell myself at 3am when i can't seem to fall asleep

i know you
i have seen you
the real you
the one you hide
from everyone
the poetry in your notebook
that is the real you
and my dear
you are beautiful

a good guy
with bad intentions

it's funny how we went from strangers to friends, and then back to strangers again.

it is as though the universe never intended for us to meet.

the darkest poetry give light to the dark souls that read those poems.

i am a writer
perhaps
because
i am not a talker

writing
feels
like
taking
the
demons
out
for
a
walk
in
the
park.

people call you "strong" just so they can use you as a shoulder to cry on, they expect you to never break, to be strong for THEM

and that is a special kind of evil; they expect you to give up pieces of yourself to build them up when they're crumbling

as if you are destined to be a monument to human fragility; they are baffled when you turn cold and dark as a pile of stone

but your true destiny is that of a volcano; lying dormant, cold and lifeless for millennia - a day will come when you release all you are

all your ever was and all you ever will be; they will write poems and songs about the day you revealed your strength to be your weakness

YOU MADE ME THIS WAY
YOU MADE ME THIS WAY
YOU MADE ME THIS WAY

like thunder you roar YOU MADE ME THIS WAY

you drown out all their moaning and sniffles and brush them off your shoulder for good; "but you are so cold" they will say,

YOU MADE ME THIS WAY

you, you made me this way