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.

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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…