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Aug 2017 · 510
Woman with no strength of few,
but many; you're the mountain dew
of which a river's made anew...
Woman we adore you.
You were moulded to give birth,
made from Adam's very rib
so that man his wife shall know
and Inside you "life" could grow.
Woman we adore you,
bone of our bones,
and flesh of our flesh;
you have something no man owns...
you're fruitful and timeless
and you were called: "woman,"
for you were taken out of man...
to become one flesh and hold his hand be a blessing in his life,
loved and honored as a faithful wife.
Woman we adore you,
your inner strength exceeds you;
made from dreams of man,
not specks of sand.
All were made of dust from earth,
but you made from God, since birth:
a defender, a nurturer, and mother
a comparable helper,
for man,  from the heart of Adam be made into a work of art;
from rib, so you won't break apart,
fashioned by the hand of I AM.
Inspired by the book of Genesis, to celebrate the birth of women. In the form of a poem
Aug 2017 · 217
The oil came deep, 
from underneath.
the earth could bleed,
her blood was black.
But men knew not_
they pierced her skin.
It all seemed fair,
but deep within.
She cried aloud,
and gasped for air.
They took her oil,
and left her there…
a lifeless, wounded, fragile heart.
Who greedy men had ripped apart.
They closed her wound with her own soil,
but she kept still, and acted proud.
While greedy men took all she had,
without her blood, her soul would rot.
She'd never get her heartbeat back.
How sad she felt…
when her own seed,
had caused her soul to suffocate.
She could not breathe
If she could not bleed.
She stayed so long, so celibate.
They were not pleased,
with gold, nor land…
They needed more,
they needed more;
went within their mother's core.
They took her oil and had it sold.
Aug 2017 · 466
These branches are a shadow,
of the roots we see not grow.

Leaves turn brown in time of spring,
the patient earth knows everything.

Earth embalms the tree with soil,
keeps it strong throughout the toil

though the tree may lose its beauty,
It were not left unattended.
Fot the loss were temporary,
and the tree stood liberated,
the heavens found it worthy
though a younger tree ascended.

It was once an old, forgotten snag
...once blossomed but still died a log

And although the tree departed,
still the secret's not unearthed...
This poem involves what's happening to earth's trees.
Aug 2017 · 312
Often yet not frequent,
I'd see this young delinquent,
An exact image of whom I were most recent,
So to say that I stare at my past thus avoiding myself at that instant.
That very moment,
Ne'er ought I insinuate that my thoughts were so constant,
And the actions thereof were so persistent,
to stem that I were too naïve and reluctant,
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••
I smell fear and mediocrity,
A custom made identity,
Whose motive is hypocrisy,
But shattered visions surely die;
And dreams are battered through a cry,
Its meaning stands a mystery,
As if it were but one big lie,
I stare at this delinquent through that foggy window's eye.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••

Amidst the abyss I hear his accent.
The voice of a believer whose innocence could fly,
But they clipped his wings because their arrogance had left them stagnant,
Closed minded individuals who lacked to imply;
This was the coming to his emancipation out of imprisonment,
Of being disallowed the privilege to try,
Sadly these spectators were Incompetent and Complacent,
Who forced the world to remain gullible to fortify.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••

So I stare as he drown himself in the disbelief that he will never cease the moment.
Due to the horrible fact that his chances were denied by a corrupt system,
Despite him filled with talent and wisdom,
Ignored potential as an aborted infant;
I heard the echo of that infant's gentle cry,
And imagined it sleep so peacefully,
Its origin were to me a mystery,
A beauty this world could never deny.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••

But eventually they'd want it to die;
As if they were driven by jealousy,
Deriving through each century,
Owning each man with a close minded mentality.
Aug 2017 · 296
born in chains I could not see,
heart was pure and mind still free,
but as the time had passed me by,
I noticed love and peace say bye...

I read; without a shadow of a doubt,
I wrote; beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Life was cruel and life was cold,
Words were calm and words were bold.

I fell in love with constant pain,
that left my heart and soul in vain.

I became humbled each time I read,
and immortal each time I wrote,
I became modest in times of growth,
and I shall not die although being dead.

For my words would live forever,
and my stories they'll endeavor.
These young folk who'll come along,
who found a place where they belong.

In times of hate and sorrow, guilt...
my poetry would be their guide,
that's why I love this poetry inside,
coming out this heart and soul rebuilt.

I wrote poetry to save those mourning,
so they'd fine love in life each morning.
The title is poetry spelled backwards.
Aug 2017 · 231
Snakes & Ladders
We played the game, threw the dice
at times we got lucky with the game.
although caught in a web of lies...
though a picture locked in a frame.

Life gave pain, left us with misery,
and empty people fought with bigotry,
all stuck in the same boat of poverty,
snakes and ladders showed our reality.
Despite our lack of opportunity...
it gave us life when we wanted to cry.
But we kept strong, continuing a story
all our forefathers faced in our society.

Without the shadow of a doubt,
we played games, feeling liberated...
As kids we played monopoly & chess,
but snakes and ladders we did best.

At the end of the ladder waits a snake
to stab you in the back with a knife
But when facing the reality of life,
some took paths not easy to take.

We took paths that left us stagnant,
made some choices in our youth.
But wisdom always showed the truth,
about our growth when we were Ignant.

Although some are fierce,
walking though lions in the street.
We used to play snakes and ladders, lost at times, we still showed no defeat.
Jul 2017 · 223
Before the end it all took place,
I met a man who drew my face;
The paint decides the life it shows,
As ancient men like Plato knows...
for in that portrait I was king,
and people never knew a thing...
for eyes and heart showed innocence,
and in my heart remembrance...
although they'd never understand,
Yet here I sat with crutch in hand.
The portrait's old and incomplete;
that moment framed. Yet obsolete.

But once upon a time and place,
I meet this boy who draws my face;
I held a secret no one knows,
this memoir only wisdom shows...
through pain the art reveals a king,
but Aristotle caught a thing;
a childhood swiftly evanescent,
rare-like paint and senescent...
a boy with rope and kite in hand,
Unsure the world would understand...
thus birds not fly; I'll supersede.
Still not convinced if i'm complete.
Jul 2017 · 191
Happy Father's Day
Dear Father
I heard stories, how you'd beat her,
from the neighbour,
when I was younger;

then you stole her___
mother's necklace, just to spoil your little lover.

Oh my mother!
You'd infect with a disease, so worse than cancer.

But my mother,
hid her pain; from any nosey commentator.
Because of you she had to suffer,
with *** it took a fighter.

You broke her heart,
But still she prayed for you to God.

When you ran off, leaving behind,
a diamond: "are you blind?"
But it's fine...she don't mind.
She just hoped, that you will find...

a little peace before you die,
when in pieces, and you try,
to correct the whitest lie...
that you told to other women, like my mother; what a guy!
I held her hand as she fell ill, but she never chose to cry,
she was stubborn; but forgave you right before she said goodbye.

But that's all I have to say,
so have a blessed Father's Day.
Jul 2017 · 384
the life of pigeons
I miss that time
when people looked at pigeons,
dancing with the wind.
Now there's too much crime.
In my mind...
I wonder about, "the life of pigeons"

Our youth a blind like moles...
I hear their cry, their fear to die!
they can never be free
like pigeons in the sky.
I hear. Gunshots and bullet holes
and gangs go on a killing spree,
unexpected "shots with a vengeance"
leaving behind, "a thousand victims."
They won't know what the future holds
their stories, never to be told.
We don't hear it on the news,
or read them in the paper.
We remember, we remember!
They all come from a paradise,
where there's no one to be blamed,
and no one seeking fame,
trying to make a name;
their vision a little dim...
for they never knew how to dream,
the life of pigeons are freedom...
living life on the very fast lane.
But we're trying to play a game
where the devil will know your name.
Never living to coexist,
like pigeons up in the sky...
our morals irrelevant,
we're slaves to a government,
when slowly they suffocated,
their lives were all terminated.

If only we taught the young,
to dream while the road is strong.
Then reality will shape our visions,
no longer will our children,
be stuck in a world of violence.
In my mind, I
imagine "the life of pigeons."
When our young civilization,
is free like a pigeon, flying.
Jul 2017 · 127
She's in love with an alcoholic,
I find it a little scary,
that people can go and gossip,
not knowing what she is feeling.
Abuse that she has to face,
his anger she have to taste.
Her life is a metaphor,
but to him, she remains a "*****."
I wish I could tell you more,
when her man is a carnivore!
who re-arranges her face
then people pretend they're blind.
He loves it when she is crying--
she hates it when he's in commit,
her love doesn't have a limit;
evil will keep on winning--
the humble won't do a thing.
I find this a bit ironic,
how someone can be romantic
but ends up hallucinating--
with hate and a bottle ***.
To him, he's just having fun.
But he is the guilty one,
who never appreciates
the little that she might do.
When the only mistake she made,
was loving an alcoholic.

Jul 2017 · 147
inhale and exhale
Inhale and exhale
We breathe, but better when we sleep.
And move, as though a boat set to sail.

Our eyes, portrays the soulful strength,
And heart's character, made of iron...
Found deep, in the core of the earth,
Unmeasured as the sea or it's length,
And our wisdom defines their worth.
Our destiny, moulded since our birth,
To journey fearless, as though a lion.

A vision where our children can dream,
To tame their pride.
And nurture their self-esteem.
Where they run young, wild and free,
Refusing to hide...
As though a mighty tree.

Inhale and exhale
We stand, as though a mountain,
And survive, despite our pain.
Jul 2017 · 143
black potato
I'm afraid she'll never be healed;
she had love, now this she'll lack.
A potato only turns black
when the skin is peeled.

He stripped her naked,
and she trusted,
every action but he never hesitated
to take all that she held sacred.
He turned everything to darkness,
now she's no longer a princess.

He was only filled with greed.
But he took her to his room,
Now she carries the little seed,
of the devil in her womb,

With the vision getting vague,
she's infected by a plague.
He caress her every muscle,
as if she was a puzzle,
then he broke her into pieces,
until a nightmare he releases.
He spent time to make her numb,
but too bad the girl was dumb,
he been acting like a charmer,
but intensions were to harm her.
He was smooth operating,
she couldn't help but to believe him,
he was honest and a gentleman,
exactly what she needed,
but little did she understand,
she'd be manipulated.
The man was on a killing spree,
her left her too with ***.
An anger boils inside them,
like a bursting lava,
making sounds of hidden pain,
and mixed emotions,
causing them to never smile
and technically,
who smiles when they are torn apart,
Just mannequins, though humans never cease to cry,
It makes my mind go vivid,
as I hear a thousand gunshots,
with these slingers so committed,
aiming guns at all these children,
from the slums, living in poverty.
No food to eat, and mothers, fathers,
all addicted, consciousness intoxicated
Alcoholics, junkies, hookers,
scrap collectors, non-supporters,
half of them are living with no,
life support, they can't afford,
to live without their souls,
seems like they need the Lord,
I see their bruises;
dead like mannequins...
living life so clueless,
but constantly they're used.
I see their wounds, they're bleeding, lying there in pain. They seem so numb, as though decaying...
And wounded by the hand of their oppressor, but they suffer,
while their wounds all look like bulletholes,
If only we could hear their cries, as though they were alive, if only mannequins were breathing, living,
don't you think we'll see, see the many bruises given by this life and all she gives, despite their wounds appearing hollow,
like they're bullet holes,
of sorrow,
they hide it with graffiti.
Every time a new tomorrow...
Moved around like mannequins and clothed by another,
meant to stay in one position; bite their tongues so they won't speak. They'll never know their cries or bruises,
their painful, deep emotions,
but the world will never know why_
mannequins don't choose to cry.
Jul 2017 · 129
Oh how they made us love these chains,
we wear them everyday.
Our boys are cuffed and pulled away.
We'll never see a change.
Whether wearing them around our necks,
or close the gate at night.
We put them on our pitbulls just so
we can see them fight.
The story's just beginning,
these young boys don't know a thing...
They'll never know the days our,
ancestors were chained into a string,
then they were thrown in the sea.
Until they pulled each other down.
Oh how they fought against the ocean,
how they swallowed only water,
till the lot of them would drown.
And their souls arose to heaven,
staring down at them in chains.
That's the story of our people,
a people who just love the chains,
they're blinded by captivity,
and lack to see reality.
They're homing pigeons flying,
such a lot they cannot be,
might seem as though they're walking,
with no chains, they're still not free.
Our children go to prison,
act like kings, but they are dying,
in those awful chains,
they're not able to see.
Jul 2017 · 161
I was taught to write poetry
not by man, nor educationally.
We never had the money;
spent most of what we had,
to feed each belly in our homestead.

Life was hard, but became not an excuse,
though our circumstances differed,
but our stories all related,
when written down; this pain became our muse

Our eyes drew energy from our surroundings,
and we used our struggle as inspiration.
Our words told a story the same as paintings,
defining who we were, despite our miseducation.

I was told to write poetry,
so our descendants may know our history,
so that our heritage may not be forsaken.
Immortalizing words already spoken.

Our voice when we're no longer around.
We wrote because we loved creativity,
and this helped us even in times of captivity.
It was our cry when we couldn't make a sound.

I was tempted to write poetry,
to express what it meant to be free.
Jul 2017 · 141
Faces on the wall
Faces on the wall,
they hung our faces on the wall.
They love us, but they left us,
they were kind, but end up vicious.
They'd invite us for a picture,
then they treated us like dirt;
their love is worth a thousand words;
and soon we're just a memory,
a picture in a frame...
Though they miss you time to time,
they always see us on the wall.
but you won't ever get a call:
they cried the day when we were born,
and cry the day we're dead,
then they suddenly get happy thoughts
when staring at our pictures.
But they already forgot about you,
ignored us like an eight-ball.
They don't miss what's left behind,
they hung our faces on the wall.
Jul 2017 · 199
They called me a king,
back when I was still nothing.
I knew they saw something,
but I just couldn't bear knowing...
that I would never be a delicate
instrument. Such as words said,
uttered, written down on a piece,
a piece of paper. Carved from a tree.
Moulded to be fragile and both, free.
Forbidden to know peace...
They stripped me from everything,
when I realized water, turning,
something once mighty into nothing.
And in fire I kept burning.
The world wanted everything to do, with me...and nature allowed me to go.

A piece of paper, birthed from trees,
I am harmless and easily torn.
A poet's golden fleece,
and through their words I am reborn.

I'm a piece of paper...
once part of a tree that grew.
Now, to society I'm never worthier.
And to nature I'm a big taboo.
Jul 2017 · 303
Capetonia Flatsenburg
We never regret being insubordinate,
but she has room for those torn apart,
despite their hearts so full of hate.
Their tears are the hurts of the heart.

They cry not knowing,
she is watching, listening,
concerned of their well-being,
while they're busy scheming;

Her seeds are all planted,
but haven't all blossomed.
Her streets all connected
but paths are divided...

Though there's lights that always burn,
there's a thousand souls who mourn.

But she cries for those who hurt her,
and loved them like a mother.

Still we lacked to love her fully,
with three hearts like an octopus;
once she were three times a lady.
We love her enough, the haven for us,

Though infested by ***** rats,
and all seem like, a big mistake there's,
so much hope inside  Flats...

Despite our flaws of being torn apart,
We never regret being insubordinate.

— The End —