I am the product of lost civilization;
hanging in between circles  of  modernization ;
who tells
Whether its rising or setting of sun  or globalization
The era of bindis
Or glamorization
Of going to Pubs
or piligrimization
Of  mothers going to kitty parties  
and  of socialization
Of works of Picasso's    
Or hussainization
Of  belief of gods
Or Sensationalization
Of act of democracy
Or  just rationalization
Of laws of science
Or limitization
Of acts of defiance
Or patronization
Of loss of love                        
Or dehumanization
Of views of people
Or individualization

i will not be dragged down to size
i will not be blindly patronized
i will, for no reason, compromise

i am myself, in that, there's pride

In the August of 2013, my therapist taught me how to feel pain.

She sat me down on her couch, put her hands around her knees,
And said that I was ready to learn about the juxtaposition of love and self-degeneration.
She recited to me as I was perfectly amended, and wrote down a scripture on the walls
As I watched from her susceptible whole-draining couch.

I began to litter my mind with an effervescence as she talked,
I pleaded and broke my solar plexus to let it shine within me as she spoke fluently about where I will be in times of darker days.
I listened, and let cognizant dissonance transform into regular dissonance,
As we feuded over some emotions that she claimed to know better than I did.
When the dissension was destroyed with my evenly wild dismantled separation from depersonalization and reality,
She stopped scribbling in her book and looked me straight in the eye.

She asked me how I felt and I told her that I did not.
I told her that I am a vessel for the supremacy of a mind that looks at prominent self-worth
the same way it looks at the particles underneath a shoe or the water at the bottom of an under-gated puddle. I told her that I have never opened my eyes since my father figure transformed into the door I used to hide away the tears of the woman who raised me up. I told her that I am a conundrum with a voice that is shadowed by the memories I witness and replay over and over again but have never actually ...really...experienced.
She looked at me like she expected to hear every word that came out of my mouth.
She was more a carnivore in my eyes, and by the time I realized how much an allure surrounded my depositing of impressions into this woman's central nervous system,
I was already telling myself that I have never really needed sanity.

She professed that the boundaries of my life were created by an inner turmoil,
And I would notice its symptoms and prognosis if I would just open my eyes to its horrifying truth.
By the time the room was filled with lies, I had already told enough truths to let her believe that assistance and recovery were the things I came into the room for.
She told me that I was a functional disorder, and I told her that that was patronization.
At the end of the session, we both seemed to feel equal over the fate of a sequel to a previous encounter with our regular conversational dissonance...
She gave me a piece of paper.
And it became a burden.
With a despondency I created out of her bickering and my dejected submission,
She ended the session and let the emotion run free from the tone of voice she used to impractically aid me.
I picked up the paper and picked up my serenity and created more demons out of the gracefulness inside of me,
"Open your eyes, Mzwandile."
I casted hope upon my pocket, crumpled it up until it meant as much as it usually did,
and exited the room with a prescription for a new life.

Thank you.
Thank you for leaving me when I needed you most.
Thank you for being disinterested in my scars.
Thank you for dropping me when all I needed was to breathe.
Thank you for letting me drown in her patronization and sitting aside.
Thank you.

these winds of depth sweep in from gods
restoring a distant comfort

the grey
conniving patronization
attempts at betrayal
so long a reliance

tempted, a lost miracle
jolting fear
to stand beneath the raining sun
fragile emanation

Trellis of honeysuckle seeking it's boundary in late Spring , I too , yet unfulfilled , without her guiding hand , winds from the four corners of Earth , patchwork sails that lay abandoned !
Clocks grow loud without sweet laughter , wood floors lead to empty rooms and closets , whispering shells reflect many shadows , infinite , room by room , in desperate soliloquy ..
A dominant look , I recognize these ****** features , committed to my destruction , **** of maritime canon , shell shocked commander , nay ,
the patronization of his embittered crew , a capsized vessel , lost at sea with malfeasants safe ashore ?  Blue ocean confluence with fresh water , sand ! Able ****** ! Log her impedance at the hazardous delta !
Five harrowing days , meandering south into harms way . From home port to a turbid , troubled sea !
Bring me the head of Cupid , the ******* child of loneliness !
A sacrifice of all that rumor insurrection , mutiny ! Your names are stricken from the book of life , Heaven shall witness thy ploy , with payment of hellfire and damnation ! Bring me the head of her leader , Hell hath inquired of him this very moment !