Words I never said

Black rain pours. Heavy wind blows. I lay my rose on her grave. I feel my eyes begin to misbehave. A soul I could have saved. Guilt fills my heart. I am ashamed. It weakens me, brings me to my knees. Little droplets ambush my eyes, sliding down my cheeks. The rain falling on my face hides my tears. African men dont cry.

The burn scorches my heart with hellish fury. I am tormented.
I pick dirt from her tombstone and watch it muddy my hands. Slime escapes my nostrils. I promised I wouldnt break down, but here I am on my knees. Fighting the conflicted feeling of tears liberating grief and the feeling that tears are a weakness never to be tolerated. I reach inside the breast pocket of my black trench coat. I pull out a picture of her gorgeous face.

Aaargh. Memories come flooding back. I am transported to a different time and place, to the day I first laid eyes upon her. A rare beauty. She had a presence that lit up the room. A smile like the morning sun. Her eyes drew me in the moment my gaze fell upon her. Thunderstruck and robbed of all movement, I just stared. She saw me standing there, pushed a strand of hair back over her ear, smiled shyly and continued going about her business.

Over the next few days I bumped into her at the same trading centre on several occasions. We spoke. A simple hello at first, but it wasnt long before we discovered we were on the same wavelength. That hello turned into full fledged conversations. Long walks back and forth to the river followed. Dancing under the stars. Lying down on grass lawns while watching the black sky of October nights. The blissful ignorance of the innocence of youth.

It was there by the riverside that we first made love and our passion grew. Lost in bliss we felt like our bond was unbreakable.

I take a sip of the moonshine that I brought with me to help me calm my grief. The bitterness inside making it hard to face the world through sober eyes.

It wasnt long before it became obvious that our hopes and dreams would soon pull us apart. I was too much of a simpleton. I wanted a simple quiet life and she wanted the whole world. It wouldnt take a genius to figure out that I couldnt give her the world. The cracks grew. We drifted apart.

He swept her off her feet in chariots of golden fleeces. Diamond rings covered her fingers, emerald necklaces hugged her by the neck and earrings of blood red rubies kissed her soft ears. Her body rested in Egyptian cotton and her feet woke up to persian rugs. Her stilletoes made beautiful music with marble floors. Her knight in shining armour.

With each display of opulence the dullness of my existence became more pronounced. I fast became a very distant memory. It wasnt long before they tied the knot. In my heart I was happy for her but it didnt make it easier for me to let go. Easy for her to forget, but not for me.

Every night I would stare at a picture of her, say good night to it and kiss it before switching off the light and going to bed.

I sit down in front of her grave. Take a cigarette out and try to light it. Oblivious of the heavy rain pouring.

After about a year or two of her marriage I received a strange phone call in the night.
The tone of our conversation was as casual and as innocent as possible. Just old friends catching up. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I had heard the rumours of her big sunglasses and the blue black purpleish marks that appeared on her skin from time to time. I had heard all the rumours of the many sexual conquests of her knight in shining armour, but who was I to intervene?

A choice is a choice, and choices must be respected.

I take a puff and watch the smoke lazily dance in the rain.

A choice is a choice, and choices must be respected, but still I wasnt prepared for what was to follow.

The news came to me while I was in my little garden, watering vegetables and fruits. Tragedy.

Some said she couldnt take it anymore and she had poisoned herself. Some said he poisoned her because he had grown tired of her. He didnt want a divorce since it meant parting with half of his estate. When she voiced her concerns she just drove him closer and closer to his resolve to be done with her. Rumours. They found her in a chair, slouched over the surface of her dressing table. Fact.

It hurts more since a few days before she had poured her heart out to me and all I said was a choice is a choice and choices must be respected.

So today I find myself here, to tell her all the things I should have said but was too much of a coward to say even though I am not one for what ifs. I try to. I start to but all I hear myself saying is goodbye.

I leave the bottle of liquor dejected on the muddy ground, throw the cigarette away, get up and leave with the words I never said unsaid.

The picture of her gorgeous face flies away with the wind, never to return again.

Beautiful nightmares

Can you relate when I relay my story?
Are you the same as I fighting for glory?
Looking for hevean 'cause life now is purgatory,
To put the past behind success is mandatory,
All the pain of yesterday gone, a brand new day,
A fresh start, I ma dig a grave for my worries,
Black Mambazo in my head and its on repeat,
Diamonds on my feet yet I hardly eat,
Gold falls out of my mouth everytime I speak,
Yet I still starve even at my peak,
Beautiful nigtmares, till I find my dreams,
From all my pain, come all my schemes

Navigate through the hate like a pirate,
When I rate high everyone grows irate,
When I rate high they want to see me fall out of the sky,
Attract jealousy even just from a try,
Wanna see me weak, wanna see me break,
But I wont break, even when its bleak,
No I wont brake, I'ma keep going
Even when bigger birds snatch food from my beak,
I roar with the lions, I dont bleat with the sheep,
I roll with the wolves, I dont run with the sheep,
Take from me now 'cause you won't when I am bigger,
Beautiful blackness, my name is Africa

Sketches of happiness

Sketches and pieces of happiness,
Not a full picture yet but its beautiful work in progress,
I am overwhelmed by the masterstrokes of God's paintbrushes,
Executed with an abbot's patience even when my mind rushes,

The lead from my master's pencil feels rough against the skin of my canvas,
But I persevere knowing its necessary roughness,
Like a mother perseveres through child birth,
I want the picture big but I let Him decide the girth,

Patiently waiting till its filled with perfect colours,
Not a complete picture yet but it already looks wondrous,
I watch the master's hand work with fascinated curiosity,
The effortlessness with which it moves amplifying His superiority

I suggest colours with the humility of a Franciscan priest,
Fearful even as the words leave my lips,
My head bowed low hiding the shame of my guilt,
How dare I try to direct a hand so great,

I am always pleased when my suggestions are added in,
A shy smile invades my face as I express gratitude for the blessings granted me,
But I try not to disrupt as the master works,
I just do my part, and let him decide what its worth,

Sometimes the picture is unclear to me but the master is all-knowing,
So I am calm to see what time will end up showing,
As master says, walk by faith and not by sight,
From these sketches of happiness, I know the picture will be perfectly alright,

Tears of a black Geisha

She moves with the grace of calm waters,
Such a soothing presence,
A shining light whose brightness never falters,
A remedy to emotional ailments,
A beautiful specimen sculpted to perfection,
Beauty that inspires muses,
Skin smooth like black porcelain,
One glance and you are taken in by her angelic features,

Every curve on her body bears testimony of God's kindness,
A beautiful painting on God's canvas,
Her inner beauty is without a doubt a match to the frame,
I watch her from a distance as a stranger without a name,
Observing her flawless grace, but something is amiss,
I read a story of pain and hurt from the makeup on her face,
Her weary eyes betray the distrust born out of hurt,
What was once a loving heart is now filled with hate,

Over and over again she has been taken advantage of,
And every time pieces of her soul are ripped open she sows seeds of revenge,
Builds walls around her and never feels safe with a man,
never dates one unless hurting him is in the plan,
Convinces herself that its strength,
But never gives herself a chance to taste a relationship's true worth,
A vicious cycle is born,
she doesnt know it but bitterness is born and it leaves her torn,

Alone in the dark she feels unwanted,
Cries to herself, all her escapades leave her haunted,
Unconsciously the layers of her makeup become denser,
Her face emotionless each day moving closer to being a Geisha,
The deeper the cracks in her heart the more makeup she appplies,
The more she tries to hide them the bigger
the reminder its all lies,
Her smile no longer radiates in her eyes,
Its true beauty lost to a slow demise,

Her happy face is a mask. Tears of a geisha.

Time capsules

Every verse I write is a time capsule that captures pieces of my soul,
Every line a pictorial depiction of the rivulets I flow,
Every rendition paints Vivid images of the pictures I saw,
A transfiguration begins, you feel me take you in slow,
You become me and feel my emotions as I reap what I sow,
You feel the greatness that resides in me and inherit my flaws,
Feel the fire that burns in me, the yearning in me,
The hunger that churns in me, as I am learning to be,
What I was destined to be, against all odds,
The stars guide me home, as I sing songs of warriors who never fold,
See the world through the eyes of the inner child in me,
The inner child that writes for me when I recite eloquently,
Make acquitance with me as I take you through these time capsules,
Bear with me as I open up these time portals,
Pray that you are strong and the feelings wont destroy you,
Pray my ups and downs dont overwhelm you,
See my down times through teardrops,
crystal clear high definition pictures,
tragic times that left my heart fractured,
Feel the smile on your face when I triumphed,
Feel the joy of the little boy who played with barefeet,
The little engine that could, breathing confidence with each heartbeat,
The pride when I excel,
The shame when I fail,
The hurt when friends bail,
The beauty of coming out of my shell,
Time capsules frozen in a scrapbook,
Times I fought, times I was shook,
Through my eyes see the inner child lose his innocence,
Transformed into a disjointed animal with no innersense,
See me gain love and then lose it,
Regain it again and then refuse it,
See my friends become my foes,
Bestfriends celebrate my falls,
Battlescars, dont ask who put what where,
Times when you reached out but there was nobody there,
Descending into an abyss of hopeleness,
Still found my way to the light out of the darkness,
My limbs grow strong and I climb out with my shadow as my companion,
Every man fights his own battles so no need for comparison,
And yes I have loved somebody before they were even born,
These are just a few of my time capsules, I could go on and on,
Time heals everything,
And these time capsules are my medicine

"You are what you eat"

One boy will eat a humble breakfast of boiled sweet potatoes or maize flour porridge, go out into the world with a happy go lucky attitude and become a success.

Another will have a full English breakfast, complain about how badly it was prepared, go out into the world sulking and become a useless failure.

Another boy will have a humble breakfast and let the state of his poverty consume his thoughts, crippling him and rendering him incapable of forward movement or achievement.

Yet another boy will have the best breakfast, appreciate it with undying gratitude, go out into the world feeling positive and become great.

The good book tells us in Mark 7:15 and again in Matthew 15:11 that it is not what goes into us but what comes out that is most important.

If you were meant to be great you will be great, whether with little or a lot.

What makes men achieve is something that is intangible and can not be injected or fed into them from the outside. It is something that stems from within. It is known by many names, "guts", "will", "courage", "heart", "chi", "life force" just to mention a few.

Men have been known to achieve great things even with less than desirable nutritional diets.

Overwhelming evidence of such feats can be provided for days on end totally obliterating the old adage that you are what you eat.

We are not what we eat.

Old house\New House

This house that I let fall to ruin,
I will build it again soon,
It will be glorious again,
There will no more reminders of pain,
Beautiful paintings will grace its walls,
I will take its cobwebs out and rehabilitate its floors,
Scrape off its peeling paint and paint it anew,
Give it life again, let its energy flow true,
Bright lights will illuminate during darknights,
Chandeliers will hang from the ceiling providing breathtaking sights,
I will make the windows so big the sun can look in when it smiles,
Warmth will fill its air and happiness will make its tiles,
I will sow seeds of greatness outside, hoping the soil is alluvial fertile,
To make this house complete, I hope my attempts are not futile,

Subtle undertones

The poetry flows a little different,
The melodies are not as sanguine,
The speech is not as eloquent,
Yet the emotions are still genuine,
The honesty is raw and evident,
Yet offers no flight like a penguin,
so instead of becoming permanent,
It dies slow like a limb with gangrene

From the Ashes

I dust off the ashes off my phoenix wings,
Breathe out, lungs feel good and my larynx is strongest,
Stretch as my eyes gaze at the heveans,
I imagine soaring, waiting for that familiar feeling to return,
The glide in the air, the freedom of flight,
The feeling of light taking over the darkness of night,
Why play small if big was all I was ever meant for,
Why fear the sky because of one fall,
Thats my pride speaking so you know I struggle,
The same pride that makes me rise above my foes,
Is the same pride that is the cause of my fall,
But it blinds me so I am ignorant of my failure and
falls,
You see my pride wins so I still spread wings,
The baptism of the fire in my heart erases all my sins,
My ashes become clay in my maker's hands again,
So he moulds me new and reveals his plans again,
Shows me the sky and bids me to make my claim,
Tells me to fly high till they remember my name

Cup of Hope

Your cup of hope what is it made from,
Metal, plastic, glass or styrofoam,
Do you throw it away when done,
Or wait to use it again with the morning sun,
I drink from the fountain of faith,
positivity fills my plate,
Breakfast for champions,
thats why I walk with a
champions gait,
Hope is my daily meal,
So despair is something I rarely feel,
my juice is always warm it barely chills,
Fires me up and successes are my vitamin pills,
Keeping my head up is my morning exercise,
Chin parallel to the ground and focused eyes,
Infinite possibilites exist within the universe,
The belief grows firmer with each passing verse,
These are just some of my early bird thoughts as I am yawning,
While watching the beautiful sun rise, Good morning..

The dead violin

Holding the violin had the feeling of holding a dead baby.

Warm salty tears ran down his face giving it a cheetah like resemblance. His fingers slowly caressed the varnished wood of his favourite instrument. He playfully stroked its strings, adjusted them, picked it up and gave it an affectionate kiss. He looked at the aging wood with a fondness that triggered memories of his youth.

For many years this violin had been his best friend. He reminisced upon all the hours he had spent practising, first under the tutelage of his revered mentor and then alone.

He remembered how lonely the process to mastery is. How the feelings of joy and frustration, tragedy and triumph intertwine in the moulding of a maestro. The memories brought bitter-sweet emotions, and a slight outlining of a smile appeared on his face although his cheeks were still smeared by tears. The only thing that had given him consolation and the power to persevere was the thought of all the places the violin would take him.

It had taken years to perfect his skill. When he played rumour had it that even angels became jealous but couldnt help it but clap hands for him. Watching his hands dance against the strings of his violin and the bow move in a sweaty frenzy was a sight that captivated even the most dull of souls, bringing it to life.

"A rare talent". "He is going places" . Just some of the things everybody would say about his skill.

He cussed under his breath at the memory of all the praises he had received but had led to no monetary gain. He looked at all the scratches on his violin, reminders of all the times he had flung it away in frustrated despair.

All the sacrifices he had made. All the hours. The discipline with he had doggedly pursued mastery with the hopes of a better life. He looked at his present sorroundings and the gloom in the air engulfed him, consuming him.

Suddenly he felt drained. All his energy left him, and he fell asleep in the chair he was sitting in, with his violin clutched close to his chest in an embrace of unending love.

"What would you do if you dedicated your whole life to perfect a skill, only to find out you can not use it upon mastery?"

Lost

I dream too much I have never been logical//
Mind so gone, thoughts so prodigal//
Music always gave home to my prodigal thoughts//
Where my random thoughts become wise quotes//
Loneliness, a thing called sacrifice//
This meant everything so I paid the price//
I am more familiar to a drum than any friend//
Siblings distant, closer to a pen//
Lips closer to a mic, than any woman//
Heart closer to a beat, than any human//
My ambition has become a self built prison//
Trying to be the new king and this is treason//
Maybe its vanity trying to shine like a prism//
Maybe insanity I never care for the reason//
Someone tell Lincoln I am a slave I need freedom//
I need emancipation I am fighting every season//

Wolf in a sheep's skin

Thoughts of the king's palace entertained his wandering mind as he ate his humble pie.

He wondered what sort of ill magic the throne held that it turned kind hearted men into callous kings who saw their subjects as mere pawns in their chess game of greed and power. He debated the kings position. Was it not to serve the people?

He chuckled as he cut another piece of pie absentmindedly. What brought this chuckle was the amusing memory of the king when he was just a citizen of limited powers. The pious air he projected. The promises he made. "I am a champion of the people's rights". He mimicked the king's favourite phrase in a mocking tone
as he took a begrudged bite of the cold pie.

His mind wandered further as he drank bitter juice from his tin cup. He thought about his own dreams and ambitions. The promises the king made of a prosperous future and opportunities to earn for skilled men such as himself.

Was it the comfortable beddings, fine wine, and grandeur of the palace that made him forget his promises? Was it his being far removed from the suffering of the common people whose lodgings he had shared during his time in exile? Was it the absence of this company? Company that had inspired such eloquent and compelling speeches that commoners took up arms and lay siege upon the city, crowning him king upon victory.

Then it hit him. As sudden as the angel of death comes to collect the souls of men in the night while they sleep peacefully. For the first time he saw the king for the man he truly was. A wolf in sheep's skin. A man who cares only for himself. A man who cares only for his own personal achievements and praises afforded him. A man drunk with power and almost suffering from a narcissitic disorder. A man who sees no value in the lives of other human beings unless directly beneficial to himself.

He sat there frozen stiff, not chewing anymore. Shocked by his sudden realisation. The throne had not changed the king. It had revealed him. All this time he was merely pretending to be a man of noble standing and worthy of such a high and privileged position.

The feeling of betrayal numbed him. If such a man is only for himself, why must I be for him?

At this point he came out of his trancelike state as suddenly as he had gone into it and realised that his wandering mind had detained him past his designated time of resuming work.

He picked up his tools of trade and rushed off into what he hoped one day would bear fruit, leaving his rebellious thoughts to linger.