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.

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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 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…

I only depend on ME.

Poetry

I feel as though I have lost myself:
a shell living on automatic.
As I walk through everyday life,
I am confined by a mere glass:
experiencing but not feeling.
My prison becomes smaller and smaller,
but as I suffocate I ask for no help.
I depend on me.
Me.
M.
E.
The bars burn lines on my skin.
M.
E.
The oxygen thickens until I can’t breathe.
M.
E.
My vision blurs.
M.
E.
I gracefully fall into darkness…
Me.
Me.
ME!
I only depend on me.
Me.
Myself.
I.