Friday, 31 October 2014

Woman In The Color Purple

I, for one used to wonder, if there are plenty of fishes in the sea, why choose the one choking on air and illusion?
One who asks
"would you still love me, when, I am no longer young and beautiful?"

She, who searched for sweetness in the most wrong places.
It made her sick, yet she gobbled it down with what made her sicker..
She sat quietly with her mole like behaviour, while, kissing underdogs..

Paralysed with unhappiness, she faulted to an extreme by looking for dead bodies in the lost and found.


The same dead bodies that utter
"You'll never amount to anything, Where are you going when you are of no value at an open market?"

You never ask a lover if you need to be loved.
It is an incentive-caused bias
Yet tragically in love with the idea of it.

Wondering why it is that,
One, is the loneliest number..
Like Snow White,
Contemplating whether to take a huge bite of the apple, or swallow the core.

That, Halloween late night feeling,
There was plenty of life wrapped up in your voice.
Emancipating the ghost within you, the ghost of the other woman,
A figure had emerged while
Minutes mocked the giver of oblivion.

"The jail you plot for me is the one you will rot in.."

You are saying a lot but you are saying nothing at all..

Never bother insisting yourself to someone who continuously overlooks your worth because
It is only when the tide goes down that you realise who has been swimming naked.

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

The Beginning &. . .

I do not think I have ever told her how I felt when we first conversed and first met.

Our friendship was cyber
And although it was, it was an adage that I believed to be true,

Clearly the future was not something I knew nor bothered caring about, it had occurred to me that neither did she, but for some reason,
She always kept her window open,

I was energized by being alone,
My energy appeared to be drained by thinking of feelings and temptations of the heart which were things I rarely took time for.
I would sabotage any chance I had to tell her that the feeling was in fact mutual.
I was more concerned with the inner world of my mind than reaching out to her. She had found me  at a point where I was simply trying to keep sane,

But she kept her window open,

I would stand outside her window, with my hands pressed against the glass, my fears fighting against the raindrops on the pane.

 I knew what I felt and was still feeling,
Sparks fly, sparks flew,

But she was a flame I did not have the strength to keep alive.
A  loving winter walking distance..

We finally met, she was beyond my mortal sight, her face alone enchanted my world-weary eyes

I stood outside her window once more, upon the glass laid previous marks of my hands.
I fell short of what I intended to do,
My expectations, set in stone.

I had started writing endlessly about her,
I was in a pile of
"should I?"

And in a pool of
"maybe not"

Everyday my guard would go down and I would let a piece of her into my mind.

I was
I was?
I. . . Was getting good at loving her.

I had found a resting point upon her cheek.
My tongue would whimsically dance to the sound of the letters of her name,
I was still not done chewing on thoughts of her

I would have never thought we would be saying "I Love You" to each other.
All the other shitty love books I had written before will be rewritten over, with new chapters, new beginnings, in new handwriting
Because of my basic
"I-am-happy-with-you & will-never-let-you-go"

All that being possible because, she kept her window open,
Open, for me :)

And this is our beginning,

So, Sup Simon? :)

Wednesday, 27 August 2014

How Is It Not Night?

How is it not night, when,
The moon refuses to go away and accept I do not love it anymore..
Its light usually beams on my face, and my eyes would get bigger,

Looks as though there has been an accident in the sky cause usually raindrops would fall.

It is most probably night when
 I sit near the window, gazing at the same moon I claim to hate while scribbling sex thoughts with tiny crayons in my mind,
My words under pressure begin to bleed original sense.
Wouldn't she be proud.

It is likely to be night when
I find myself missing her and the shadows kick off their shoes and join me for a little tap dance, whispering "its only 3 months she'll be home soon"
It has not even been 3 minutes and I am quite losing it as it is.

I would like to think it is night when dawn turns into a feeling and the only challenge I face is not sleep paralysis but sleeping with thoughts, wishing my ideal body weight is hers on mine.
My thoughts under pressure begin to bleed less sense,
Without the sight of her who carries it,
They bleed less sense.

It is night isn't it, and
I would like to think there is nothing wrong with loving her
And logic be said, that the greatest drug that exists for a human is another human.
My human
Who seems to keep invading my thoughts, much more at night..

Tuesday, 5 August 2014

It Is Dreyer, I Am Sure.

I am dead on one's feet about being asked if the name I possess is really my own,
Standing at the center of my view without shame asking me if I am "really sure"

Because the image I have is unlike the image of those you know.
Because I am too yellow for the white ones that you know,
Because my hair is black and thick, not as blonde and silk like the ones that you know.

Pardon me Mr know-it-all, since you know it all, you tell me, cometh it with an image and a language? Perhaps,
Perhaps I should have a particular vernacular?

Who are they that they can not be me and what is it about me that I can not be them?

My skin is rough with scars and outcast tears turned into gel not smooth and cocoa buttered like the ones that you know,
Because I use words like "you feel me?" and not "dost Thou understandeth" like the ones that you know,
Because I am on that African Namibian tip and it is not the European German vibe that you know.

I am forbidden to call it my own because it is the remnant of a lunar crater on the far side of the Moon.
The heck I look like?
I am a product of love, redemption and most probably predicament..

Nou hier gaan ons alweer,
Mine happens to be Wambo and Afrikaans and not the German and Dutch that you know.

But, say, no offence but, do you really know?
Or are you just a fool that thinks himself to be wise, not knowing that wise man knows himself to be a fool.

You, who seeks to quench the fire of hurt with words,
You, whose assumptions subconsciously makes him think I am not worthy of my last name,
Seriously, fuck I look like?

It was them who took our land,
them who took our lives,
them who stretched our legs wide open and took our pride.
Well darling, we took their last names

Dryer, Dreyer, Dredger,

Which ever pronunciation your lips forms to utter I shall take none offense to,
 just do not stand at the center of my view without shame and ask me "How come?"

It is my name, now, genius, and that?
that is how come.

Sunday, 27 July 2014

Nothing Is Ever What It Seems

Nothing is ever what it seems,
It is a big world, with different people,
Who can do different things,
That can hurt you in different kinds of ways

Cause see, tree without fruit still got root,
Man without tooth got tongue that can still bruise,
Lie without truth is still untrue

 Nothing is seldom what it seems
Because people are not who they appear to be,
even she who laughs a lot
With her outward smile of inward pain
Has internal sorrows and eternal misery
Her life filled with inner chaos and outer broken dreams

the point of trying to be in contact with any other human being is like fighting gravity.

Nothing is as it seems
Because we've been kicked out of Eden and we now know that we are naked
because of blinding lights, black appears to be white,
And wolf appears in sheep's clothing
And one day You will turn into what you judge.

Will anything ever be what it seems? We claim to want to unfuck the world
And we call ourselves nice yet still shatter others' dreams and Dreams are the lives we aim to live.
So mortal to keep attentive and rub your mind through your eyes, use your brain don't sit on your mouth and let your ass talk
Because, nothing is ever as it seems,

Unless. . .
Unless it is.

Friday, 27 June 2014

How To Love A Black Girl

Black girl is the love story that has just begun,
How do you learn to love black girl when she never learned how to love she?

Reminiscing about how black and blues go hand in hand,
Lost black girl,
White master never taught her how to love she

Only a shell of her former self.
Caress her so she affirms that her 12 years enslavement is no longer hither.

Respect her like you do with your light mother,
Value her like you do with your God, it is in his image she was created.
Black girl is learning how to love she.

You love the sun that makes light girl lighter,
Detesting the moon because it's dimness makes black girl darker.
Words do not do her any justice. 

"Team White and Light Skin, ain't nobody got time for no black bitch"

"Hood rat"

"Nuh uh mama, she be a negative kind of light"
It is black girl that makes other women want to pay for physical features she was already born with.
It is black girl that raised your little white girl, calling her nothing but "The Help"
She who dared to call her own brother "son"
It is black girl that birthed your universe.

You do not know how to love black girl because you are thinking of how to make love to black girl
Thinking of sticking your tongue in her ear yet not allowing her words to go through yours.

Do not play any victim song, percussionist.
Black girl's tears as heavy as the gold around Caucasian girl's neck.

 I bet by now Black girl has learned how to love she

 Behind this color blind stands black girl with her head held high, refusing to besmirch her character for anyone's sake.
Black girl is the beauty in ugly.
Black girl is the revolution that will be live.

Go ahead,

Love black girl,
She too loves she.

Wednesday, 25 June 2014

The Skin I Live In

I have been standing at a top of a point where four walls mocked me.
They made me affirm that I made it seem fine for everyone to be in a relationship but me.


Even the ocean refused to stop kissing the shore.

How do we learn to love other bodies
We learn not to own our bodies.

Four walls mocked me,
yelling "I am not boyfriend material"
It seemed fine for everyone to be in a relationship but me.

The skin I live in is the skin I feel
comfortable enough to wait for you and neglect carbon copies of you that quenched the thirst of my boredom.

See, the struggle is real, and Uhm I ended up losing things I thought I needed, but what is a need when we need not know of real "needs"?

The skin I live in is the skin I feel
nothing more than just being a rib from a man,
a sperm cell of a horny adult,
An Eve without An Adam to seduce and commit sin by exploring the taste of the, forbidden fruit.

The skin I live in is the skin where
beneath it lies blood cells having goosebumps as I create an image of you.
An image I might have placed in my memory locker at the back of my mind and compelled myself to forget the combination

The skin I live in is the skin I
want you to accept,
And, comprehend.

The skin that will await you.