Cowards own slaves

Cowards own slaves

A poem for black hearts.
This poem is for the neglected soul,
the boy who’s fathers words he could never live up to,
his lonely, his sad.
To the girl drowning again in a pool of her lovers neglect.
Only the unlucky few could know how that felt.
To have a blackened heart,
to make love to the feeling of sadness,
and hold your breath long enough to not have the depression tear you apart.

Do you hear the screams, do you hear the little girl scream?
Do you hear them claim the sexual assault her fault,
for being in a place that should have been safe.
Like she didn’t exist.
Or did we look the other way because you see it a lesser sin than we disgrace the priest.
I wrote this,
to the boy expected to be man enough,
to the girl expected to fall in line,
we imagined this skin to be free,
to only be shackled by chains of a different colour.
Cowards own slaves.
We, the victims in an ocean,
whose waves,
washed away the black in our hearts, to reveal more black.
The stars cannot see you,
the stars cannot see you bleed.
Have the tears in your eyes already dried up,
did you feel the black in your fragile heart a little less ripe.
Or did you carry your chains, giddy, with a smile on your face because people told you it was all part of life.

She cried,
he cried,
yet they never understood why.
Why the smiles to them looked like hidden knives,
and why hope, their hope didn’t hold their hands.
Why the rope seemed like a better chance,
to leave, to be free,
to not play chess with their thoughts then wonder what their friends would think of them.
Like their hurt reaped open a black hole,
like their hurt was the reason it rained on the sunniest days.
They wanted to reap out the sun, it’s mocking gaze.
Maybe ‘they’ wasn’t the best word to use on these people.
Maybe ‘these people’ just wanted to be real,
for once be heard.
And not feel like echoes in the dark each time they’d mouthed to you that they’d rather be dead.
To not be slaves.
To be the chilly mist in the morning on your face felt.
To be felt.
To not be slaves.
To not be slaves any more.


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Poetry in the things I’d make you feel

3883720befee79564b58a89a48d2f94a--sexy-drawings-top-secretPoetry in the things I’d make you feel

I’d make love each day to thoughts,
each night in bed I think of you.
I’d imagine you here,
your heavy breath on my chest I’d feel your warmth cling on to my wanting skin.
I’d make moist your darkened places,
stroke your mind with explicit whispers,
then steadily kiss you deeply in places you’d want moist, make you lose most of your senses.
Savour the taste in my mouth,
each time you’d let out soft moans to compliment your moment of weakness.
I’d map the geography along your elegant curves, each, Oasis reached.

I’d use your body as my instrument,
play sensual music in small moments,
that would leave you breathless.
Every gasp taken,
with a hungering excitement that I’d wish to exploit.
I’d place my warm lips against yours to stir butterflies inside.
Let this friction start fires within us so the fumes could make us suffocate on our sins,
and make eye contact,
and see galaxies through eyes drenched with desire,
I’d take your mind places,
make every nerve under your soft skin feel my presence too.
Each touch send shivers like ocean tides.
Make the rhythm in your thighs sync with mine and yet not feel deeper still.

Let my fingers feel their way through honeycombs inside on a moon lit night,
see me smile,
the excitement in my eyes as I make you mine.
Make you endure moments of my lingering tongue,
and make my kisses feel like pins and needles on the small of your back.
So let our shadows dance in all their nakedness to the idea of us making love,
with candles lit,
our passion set ablaze.
Till we’re too tired to do anything else but fall asleep.


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Angels don’t die


This poem is about casting crowns,
not for the lyrics that kept me a float,
because there was no good good father in the words I spoke.
This poem,
is about the girl that wore the crown upon a throne of happy,
that was a crowd,
that made me proud,

“You bring joy to those whose hearts are broken,”

words that clung to my voice in the songs I sung,
that night.
I held an angel in my hands,
the darkness around I was in a blur you see this baby she had my eyes.

Her smile a soothing wave,
the itch of butterflies in my tummy right now exactly the way I felt,
that day,
I held her,
for the first time she smiled.
I still remember that day,
that I pulled down an angel to call her my own,
before, I felt like a world full of pain, but He never let my righteous tears fall to the ground in vein,
so He gifted me a love to call my own,
before I was embraced by darkness because I was alone.
I felt the same way three months later,
I’d hold on to my girl so that she too wouldn’t let go.
I’d felt lonely,
but not lonely enough to ignore that she was still here with me,
with us.
I’d hoped for waves,
to sweep over me,
an ocean of pain,
and sooth the truth painlessly through unwanting lips.
I lay her in pink,
I like to believe she loved that,
because she’d smiled when I did.

It’s been a year today,
though it feels like yesterday when I saw her smile,
she was only three months old.
I made myself believe that what I heard each night,
were the incessant pour of rain drops hitting the ground,
and not the bitter tears I’d shed for my child.
I’d wondered to myself if she thought about me too,
I wanted for her to smile like the sun rises to keep me warm.
For her to see me grow more into myself,
and to hold her sisters hand again.
that would glow a little more each time she’d say “baby sister phiri”.
They’d laugh together,
at each other,
in moments I still remember clearly.
I love her sister,
and I still bleed love for her too now,
In a way,
I’m thankful to her really,
for being my alpha,
my queen,
my princess,
my child,
my baby,
that morning we named her Chelsea-Nyasha.



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XV.X.MMVll – Words to the Olympian

XV.X.MMVll – Words to the Olympian

I’ve rode horses all my life.
The metaphor being,
my life’s always been an uncomfortable unsmooth ride.
I’d watched my mom her entire life,
the Olympian,
that beared the torch,
like her sickness didn’t slow her down at all.

She had smiled,
when the doctor told her she’d never make it.
I thought to myself for our sake perhaps but now I know it’s because she’d gotten us that far,
the Olympian.
My hero,
never wore a cape,
instead she’d put on a smile like it was a mask,
hide her pain,
so that we’d enjoy the horse ride home.

I remember how she lay there unmasked.
Her lifeless form the final unveiling to a chapter I didn’t expect.
That no one expects.
Her lifeless form a cold I’d felt each day after.
I’d close my eyes,
because I thought it was a better sight than the colours,
I thought then seemed dull.
I lived in grey.

I’d wash my face in tears,
the salt a make up I’d have each day,
reminds me of the oceans that did not keep me afloat.
I’d let the dark in my veins see my broken light too,
through freshly cut slits in my wrists.
Remember the numb in my throat,
the guilt a gripping bear claw tearing the skin off my back because I never told her how I felt.
Did she really know me I wonder,
my personalities always been a thick mist that surrounds my face.
She’d said when things get messed,
dust yourself off and stand up,
I wondered then why she didn’t listen to herself,

I feel her smile.
I know she’d never give up like this.
I bet she’s up there,
the Olympian,
still bearing the torch.



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Anchors in a broken sea that I do not wish to drown in

Anchors in a broken sea that I do not wish to drown in

To be an African man,
is me a mean sounding melanin skinned brother with a hardened voice.
Be the thunder that you hear before you see the lightning,
which means,
I can not speak to you in a softer tone,
unless deceit is what I crave.
I can not tell you what hurts me at night because I’m an African son which means,
I cannot show you my weakness.

Anchored by my African blood,
is balancing a planet on a pencil,
so they do not draw conclusions that I cannot manage the world,
hold my own,
chase off snakes and lions because men should do that too.
I was called an African son,
which means you cannot see my river,
because men should not cry.
I cannot show you sadness if I have none.
Cannot portray myself an 8 year old boy cowering in the corner alone holding tightly in the cold darkness of the night because I want someone to hold,
for once,
not be the shoulder to cry on.
Please loosen the chains,
and let me drift away.
No longer will I be anchored to your truths like it was some semi commandment.

I am the letter holding signatures of past lives fought through bondage and struggle,
and I will no longer be a burden.
I’ll be like Atlas holding the skies so you do not see the pain in my eyes each time you look up to see the sun rise,
Each time another day goes by,
the words “BE A MAN” the meal that breaks the fast,
that’s like monkeys watching me eat,
through the windows,
and they cannot be trusted.
They will take what little I have and make me feel less of myself,
and not feel whole enough.
I’ll put on my beret, and soldier on,
oh I mean man up.

The crown from Kings past weighs me down,
as the waves come.
Even now that my mask needs to be sewn back on again.
I feel like clothing,
because the tags only come off when I prove myself not trash,
not reckless,
not weak enough to only be called boy.
I’ll have girls, and be proud.
In that moment I hold another new born girl,
I’ll be proud and ignore the voices.
Open my gifts,
because they mean more to me than what other people think,
I’ll be proud, African brothers I’m more man,
than what others think,
when I start to love myself first,
I’ll be proud.

And lift up my anchors from this broken sea that I do not wish to drown in.



The Childrens dream

I have a dream.

A dream about tomorrow.
Tomorrow the day that comes after the day that is today.
Which might take a year, or more.
But tomorrow for me is not a distant dream, but a path I begin today.

I want to be a doctor, and accountant or a lawyer.
A lawyer to defend the defenseless build on the already towering fences, of life that hold communities.
My entire life I want to spend bringing strength to our unity.
I want to be strong.
Hold up the weight of every dream I hold inside.
To feel the basket of everything mother Earth provides.
She shouts.
Mother earth calling us to feed.
I’m a seed sewn by mum and dad,
and with my crown,
a tree to be.
Roots going deeper in the ground,
deeper still.
My will to be great strengthened by teachers, preachers, mothers, fathers, stars I can see and are always close to me.

I want to be the math that counts his blessings.
Always chasing after things blindly, to others it seems, but guided by teachers whose wealth of knowledge brings me closer to my vision.
To make the most important decisions.
A consultant to be that counts because I want to be an accountant.
Which is the best news.
The best excuse.
The best muse to the ears because as a confident leader to be I want to be cheered.
To be the alphabet that always starts with A’s, to my grades, a person in white a doctor whose hands gift people with more years.
Gifted hands.
Ben Carson would not have been so gifted had he not listened to everything his mother said.
What my mother said.
My father said.
Or even what my teacher said.
The cement they spelt with words strengthened the foundation we’ve now made.
Building blocks led to our vision made from us,
the childrens image.



A girl I knew a long time ago

Is she my friend.
Is she my girl.
Thoughts that block my every path.
I am lost in thought not knowing how to treat a girl so sweet and without doubt.
The light of my simple life.
The fire in my heart,
grows bigger with every chat–but teenage fears fill my heart with many many doubts.
She loves me.
She likes me.
But none she shouts aloud.
She’s my lover.
She’s my friend in my head these words are shouts.
Her voice calms my world.
But without her my paths derailed.
To hide it or to seek it means the same to me, I failed.
I miss her and also I like her.
But as her friend or her lover I don’t know what I want.
But whether she does or she doesn’t I’m still a teen of this world.


Things start to fall

When things start to fall.
That’s when you’ll see the true meaning of your own story.
Complications only make you feel more and more ashamed and sorry.
The only option you have is to keep standing tall.
Nothing hurts more when things start to fall.

Life is lame–dull, and you feel like you’re living in an unwinnable game.
Trust an ability you will not know.
Unheard to all.
When things start to fall.

You’ll go crazy with shame.
For you cannot contain the pain.
The mistakes of your past will haunt you each day and burn your inner trust.
Yet hope lies in a different status quo.
When things start to fall.

And your life is all about scream.
Like you’re living in a gruesome dream.
Like your life is a sitcom or a show.
Just don’t listen to your friends about changes no–or else you’ll regret when things start to fall.

The Music In Me

The music in me has this electrifying essence.

That brings out the true me—my emotional presence.
Yeah simply put it overwhelms me.
Mostly overburdened by words churning right to left.
East and west.
A beat pattern that only I can see.
Rhythms – rhymes all in tune with my mental beat.
Flowing down my fine spine intensifying cold heat.
The chills.
That are the melody inside that keeps playing and playing.
What else can I do apart from listen to it’s sayings.
Saying, ” speech trapped in inner voice, and can’t escape a world of random words,” my mind.
But can’t escape a curse overburdened with tales.
And empty words.
This music in me is a part I most cherish.
For without my simple sonnets then me—my soul shall perish.


That girl

That girl you don’t get.
That simple game of pretend.
That lovely voice of symphony.
A Melody,
meaning more to me.
Descending much truth I can’t deny.
Her mystery her golden eye.
Her sober pride a bird of prey.
So hidden desires now begin to fly.
This lioness seductive powers stretch far beyond the will of others.
Her charming smile it corrupts.
It disrupts all sense of thought.
Her strong character a virtue.
The most powerful code.
Inclined and in tune with the beliefs she highly upholds.
She attracts me on so many levels.
Deep emotions blossoming from a hardened heart.
At last this fact shouts aloud that it’s her.
Her that confuses she drives me insane.
Her that radiates so much more happy that she excavates my brain.
To the point that she changes me,
I’ll never be the same again.


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