I Caught Feeling

have i fallen in love with my fears
have i nurtured all these tears
have i blinded myself to a vision that is clear
have i fallen yet again
have i resurrected pain
have i sung the song of broken dreams and spirits all the same
did i refuse to lend my ear
to a God that was always there
did i mute the sound of my own conscience, and so i did not hear
did i play the life of games
did i play the role of lame
did i converse again with demons, debating who’s the one to blame
why’s it, serenity so near
can look through me with a stare
and turn around instinctively, denying me my claim
why can’t i feel me here
in the presence of my peers
yet i can’t stop the feelings that just seem to know my name

Chaos Theory

I just saw the shoes and the can randomly outside near where my cousin, Lunga, was living early in the morning, as I was on my way back to Midrand from Jo'burg. These objects just immediately caught my eye and I felt compelled to took this photograph.

discarded out there at random, haphazardly...but I couldn't have placed them more perfectly if i tried.

"Total chaos equals perfect symmetry..."

Defining the Abstract (poetry)

“Poetry isn’t what I do; it’s who I am...”
I find this statement has become increasingly true the more I find out about who I am and where I fit in to the ‘Grand Plan’ of it all. I’m hardly the right person to tell anyone what poetry is and is not, but there are some things I know to be divinely born of heart and sober mind. I don’t believe poetry is an ‘ON/OFF’ switch that u can choose to turn on the inspiration on queue; poetry is not the structure of the writing, or even how it is delivered across and received by others. It is not a tool one uses to get what they want from, to impress others, to intentionally oppress or put down another individual. It is not a weapon. It is not the witty rhymes one writes only to get attention or woo another, not that there’s anything wrong with wooing with poetry, I’ve done that too, but if that is your only reason for writing poetry then...you’re not really a poet. You are an imposter, an imposter with the “look” and feel of a poet, but with none of the true heart and substance that goes with the ‘title’. Poetry is the world in words, looked at from your view at that time, born of heart and inspiration that seems to overwhelm the writer as it hits them like half a brick slamming at the temple.
Poetry is growth and self-discovery. Its pain, excitement, peace, love, anger, anticipation, fore/after-thought, fear, faith, strength and joy trapped in text and verbal coding attempting to decipher for the human condition. It doesn’t even have to contain conventional sentences, diction, or even words at all.
“Poetry isn’t what I do; it’s who I am...”
It’s how I speak, relate, and communicate with the world.
Poetry isn’t just ‘now’ or ‘then’ or ‘whenever’. Poetry is, and it will never be again – like a desert rose.
Poetry is not a special hat or beads or style of dress. Poetry is not a trend.
Poetry is...
Poetry is a way of life, a culture... poetry is more, so much more than you can hope to ever scribble down or trot over during a random group ‘word pass’ or ‘Jam Session’. Poetry is life. Poetry is more...but you still try to write it – that’s what makes you a blessing unto those that care to hear you out; that’s what makes you an inspiration, a messenger...a poet.


[This is not at all everything that poetry is. Poetry is what it is because of how within it we are free to be ourselves; and that's the point, poetry is about being true to you - screw what everybody else thinks or says. Poetry is my Life, my Voice, my Family, my Friends. Poetry is truth ~ as i see it.]

Sunday Night - Someday Might

Feeling the abyss of the Son
realizing the error in my misguided sight
fleeting past seconds of a race that can’t be won
seeing that the ‘reality’ sheds more darkness than the light
swallowing glass-full’s of bitter tears
of anger
rage
confusion
and malignant fears
swimming amiss the ominous words that brought me here
this Sunday Night
which Some day might
Shine as bright as the blinding cries of my former (inner) child
and all the while
trying to tame emotions that emerge as twisted and wild
Why do I cry
on this Sunday Night
that Someday might
feel sympathy for the pitiful excuse that I am
riddled and reduced in the palm of a hand
and I can’t seem to stand with arms open
hoping that
these feelings Someday might
on Sunday Night
take up flight
and leave me, the forgotten spawn of short-falls
and mistakes that you just can’t help but regret
as you spit at the Son
wondering why he cursed you with his life
have I become the seed of misdeed
and a leach with knees
that kneels and pleads
but seeks to see you bleed
and lick your wounds
crouching down into them
cocooning myself in blood and sweat
and treating it as my wombs

Oh Why?
Why does this Son
Why does this Sunday Night
never hope that Someday might
be less tragic than today
I await the Son’s daylight
that never comes, but
Some day might
be Sunday Night’s
White shining light
that lightens the burdens of ‘right’
but what if
what if on this Sunday Night
[Someday might]
the Son just might refuse to shine

The View from My Window

I look outside my window
At a life that hasn’t come,
At a sunrise of our memories
Stretching back to where I’m from.
As the dew drips off the petals
Of flowers in the mist,
We forget about our midnights
As time ceases to exist.
The nectar of your whispers
Still clings upon my lips
And the taste just chills my senses
As you reply me with a kiss.
The warmth of stars forgotten
Still stretches from beyond,
Reminding me of sunsets
And where I once belonged.
But you, with just a smile,
Illuminates my day,
Seeing me as life’s perfection
And begging me to stay.

Mankind

Walk around blind
Behind yourself with worry,
Waiting for the enemy to carry you away.
Repelling, if you may
As you’re waiting for the day.
Left purple in your frustration,
Bastards of abortion
Living in perpetual mental castrations
Evading penetration;
Vasectomies of verbal illation
And still show no such patience.
As if waiting a while will leave your soul vacant.
Mankind cannot see where beauty lies
Because we find that its eyes
Hide behind its mind.
These vengeful vultures
With stares of archery.
If looks could kill
It’d hit the heart of me.
Eyes see what they want to see
With short-sighted vision as it might be.
Fear-stricken by the unknown
And questioning the apparent given,
It wants to get saved
But turns its nose up at the prospect of hope.
Rather puppet-string up its dreams
And place its beliefs in a pope-on-a-rope.
Mankind is a migraine, and I refuse to cope
Or just crocodile-smile, grin, and bear with it,
Because for years I’ve kept with it
And went, swept away in a wave with it.
You’ll see it
And that angry mob,
You’ll slowly stat to be it
And the same freedom you fought so long for
You’ll turn the lock and key on it.
Mankind is greedy, and it never gets enough
Of stuff
It’ll eventually just want to get rid of.
I’m sick of the pretences
‘Cause the only emotion Mankind really feels is apathy.
It thinks that when it gets bored of reality
That it can simply
Change the channel
On these reality programmes
‘Cause it spends so much time
Seeing reality in programmes
That it starts to believe that
Reality’s programmed

New Beginning

I see my future in your eyes,
I feel our destiny when we touch,
A new sunrise at each corner of your smile.
The light that leads me from my darkness is you.
You are my secret.
Frequently whispered for the fear that you might just fade away.
So everyday, still I stay bound to you…