The Addiction

Poetry, Silent Observations, Uncategorized

Falling down the rabbit whole:
Trying to grasp parts of the nicotine
As the smoke floats away from me,
I begin to awaken in reality.
One puff.
Two puffs.
I am reunited with the mad hatter,
But as we explore wonderland,
The cigarette ends…

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November 26th

Poetry

I stare at the blank page,
Forcing my thoughts into imprisoned words.
Sentence after sentence,
I carefully construct a piece of worthy literature only acceptable to me:
For whom is the judge between the enslaved mind and fingers shackled to the brain?

A moment turns into an infinity:
the removal of one dictator for another…
Will I ever experience liberty,
If I am both the slave and holder of the whip?

Cinderella falls into the rabbit hole,
And Alice is tricked into an everlasting sleep.
Snow white rescues Prince Charming from the dragon,
And Little Red Riding Hood is the wicked witch.

Yugeur labong ziber ziber awwreu
Gremble remble zench laroux

Insanity is the norm that allows me to imprison my thoughts.
Each word containing many thoughts just waiting to be freed

Confined In The Reality Of Fables

Poetry

I have bite marks on my tongue from the words I never let pour out of my mouth,
Scratch marks on my arms from the hugs I could never give you:
The physical pain is not what eats the corner of my brain,
But rather the silence:
The nothing
The idea that it was all just an illusion in my head.

Because for once in my life I wanted to believe in a fairy tale.
I felt something and mistook him for being Prince Charming.
Just.
Like.
That.
It was midnight and when my glass slipper fell off my foot, he didn’t see it because he was too caught up loving Cinderella.
For I was not her,
I was just merely an imposter on Halloween-
all dressed up for trick-or-treat.

The Cycle Of Broken Jars

Poetry

Cloaked and hidden:
i see all and understand
An oracle of souls,
Perspective is investment:
a never ending cycle of give and take

My heart bleeds on a page,
and as all the emotions are carved into my soul-
Each scar and bruise,
Reminds me of the nothingness of pain:
a small black hole sucking away at the youth of my physical cage

Set him free:
Let him feel the motion of the air against his wings
Untouched and unguarded
Then watch him fall:
Let him get shot from his paradise of nothingness
Broken and bruised
Give him life:
Let him fall in love with the beauty of your eyes
Revived and rejuvenated
Set him free…

Plastic Limitations

Poetry, Silent Observations

Dolls lined up in neat rows of ten,
each equally afraid of lies, pain and disappointment
Drawn with aching smiles and soulless eyes:
cages are imprinted with redundant words to spark interest

A new era of egocentrically selfless dolls pollute the aisle
while the rest are left to decay into the dust they rose from
And as damaged beauty is glorified,
hearts are lost to the physical eye:

Money, magnified, manic
Absent, apathetic, abandoned
Grated, generic, glorified
Empty, effortless, edited
Damaged:
the end of each relationship is the beginning of every insecurity…
Damaged.

Pieces Of A Puzzle

Poetry

I am a collection of broken pieces,
a complete whole yet not completely whole.

I am a collection of broken pieces,
instinctively reopening healed wounds to feel at ease.

I am a collection of broken pieces,
a tragic hero to the demons in strangers’ eyes.

I am a collection of broken pieces:
An artwork to be understood.
A poem to be interpreted.
A mathematical equation to be solved.
Pieces of a puzzle lying on the ground…

I am a collection of broken pieces:
Please don’t save me.
This is home.

I am: Makaziwe. Sasha. Nyingwa.

Poetry

My perspective is An abomination,
a true litigation of Karma At work.
and as i await Zion,
I am a prisoner of Wild illusions temporarily Eradicated by reality.

Starved by Artistic aspirations,
my Sanity is Held in contempt
And abused to create literature.

Nonchalant in nature,
Yet Intrigued by the ideals of society:
i am Numbly aware of the Grotesque Whims of the Allotted minority.

I am. Makaziwe. Sasha. Nyingwa.

The Pseudo Doctor

Poetry, Silent Observations

As tears run down her face,
She holds back a smile because there is a certain beauty in remembering the fragility of your humanity.
The emptiness of pain begging for sharp steel to touch the smoothness of her skin as she becomes an addict to surgery.
And in that moment, there is only her and darkness…

The Unrequited

Poetry

He loves her and I love him.
As I sit in my darkened box,
my lips are stale from his last kiss.
He loves her and I love him.
His clouded soul penetrates through me from across the room
and I shiver in instinctual anticipation.
He loves her and I love.
Moments. Emotions.
Fragments of the past six months resurface as routine prevails over me.
He loves her and I.
Forgotten. Useless.
Discarded like death delivering an orphan to a filled home,
a pseudo smile echoing the sweet words of past lovers.
He loves her and.
Ripped out from the protection of my ribs,
I am dipped in the River Styx,
as my heart beats in his chest.
He loves her.
Yet my soul doesn’t weep,
as he proclaims his love across programmed rooftops.
He loves.
In the end, it doesn’t even matter…