journey through

You traitor You traitor, a sorry unbeliever and a sore loser, how do you sleep at night? Where do you get the strength to smile? You traitor, whose mouth mauls left and right, you stalk borer who eats your host, how do you know your victim’s way, how to stalk them and launch a venomous attack on them? You snake of the savannah, a brood of all that is illegal and prohibited. Have some mercy, have some decorum. You ate your mother, ate your father and ate your friends. Don’t you see that you have eaten into your own life? You are the dog that mauled the hen and forgot to pick his teeth. You traitor, a sorry creature born of greed and sick ambitions, sharpen your teeth and grease your palm for the silver coins will land in soon. Go ahead and sell them all, go ahead and give up where they hide and how they live. You mole, know that the ground belongs to none and someday they shall dig you out. Someday when your hosts have their stomach full, they shall seek you, and you shall be paraded b

Come on home They told you every day, they let you know how worthless you are, a piece of tin discarded in the sand, a piece of grass in the field. They sprayed it in your face every morning and berated you every evening. What insult have you not known? Every time when they sent you out for not being as good as them, for not working as much as them, I understood. Every day when they underestimated you and tossed coins with your future, when they believed you were nothing, I saw something in you. When they closed the road they let you open another. When they shut you out of their lives they let you concentrate on yours. I know that they never saw your strengths, only your weaknesses. I know that they never witnessed your successes but never missed your failures. The good thing is that you knew how strong you were and what it is you were capable of. I know very well that you want to quit, for you feel that your end has come. This here is not the end. It is just the beginning, the eerie

In praise of the sycophant This is an ode, to you, almighty sycophant, a messenger of mediocrity and vanity, an empty tin to amplify misused words and crippled grammar. I write in praise of you, hard sworn sycophant, you who took a vow with stupidity, that till death do you part. This is not a song of praise but that of pity. It is not a tale of romance on the moon but of heartbreaks in the volcanoes. How long will you lick your master when his mistress doesn’t even bother trying? How long will you become a thing, laughing at malnourished humour and crying in melodramatic emotional catharsis? How long shall you be the one? This is an ode in praise of the sycophant, the loud mouthed fool that spreads toxic propaganda and mal-informed gossip. This is a story, the tale of a fool that runs around naked, his manhood bare for all roving eyes to see, a man who has never known any purpose but that of licking that dark and sweaty buttock. I visited the sycophant in his sty, where he stayed wit

Is anybody out there? Is anybody out there? Is anybody awake, to hear my howls in the night, my wail louder than the cricket’s sound and colder than a wolf’s yelp? Save me from these nightmares, drag me away from these demons, the hapless creation of my imagination, a useless figment of my machinations. Is anybody out there? Save me from myself, save me from my claws, these that I use to rip myself apart. Search my brain and take out this squishy conscience, for every night she torments my highway of dreams and in the day she rolls me in guilt and regret. Save me from my decisions before the body finally quits, for the soul is willing but the flesh sure is weak. I can fix them all, but who will fix me? I can point it all out for them, give them strength and replenish their spirits but who will nourish me when I need a drink? I give them hugs and cuddle them when it is cold but who will hold me when the weather is not fair to me? Who will hold me when night comes and again I fear? Give

I envy you I envy you, all of you who have never known the warmth of a woman, you who have never known what it is to be wanted and be needed. I envy you, all of you who have never known how to carry on with a broken heart. My heart is full of envy, for those who have never known to touch, never been bewitched by a kiss of love, or a kiss of lust. My soul is jealous for all those who have never allowed themselves to drown in the rivers of sweet words and disappear in the long hugs of they that wanted to come first. It is better if you never ran with them through the hills, holding hands and laughing crazily, it is better if you didn’t lie in the sand to watch the sun laze across the sky, for the pain that comes when it all falls apart is not worth the moments you had when you were alive. The death inside your soul is thick and heavy, grey and pale and it threatens and tries to suffocate. I envy you, all of you who have never had to cry yourself to sleep, who have never sat to mourn a p

The broken road I know of a road, one paved with stones and normal ballast. I know of that road full of pools of blood and screams of sorrow, that road filled with sounds of whips and moans of pain. All other roads are neat and well paved, the other road is poorly crafted and ugly to the normal eye, but it does head somewhere. It is only the broken and the tortured souls that find their way there. It is only the battered and the bruised that know how to seek that road. It is they who have seen that they can never walk alone and need a hand to hold that find this road. It is those drunk with hopelessness and defeat that fall panting onto that road. On the broken road we are kings because we have a kingdom to inherit. When I saw the broken road, I didn’t see a yoke, I saw freedom, I never saw defeat, I saw hope. When I lifted my eyes and looked up at Calvary, I did not see the two thieves, I saw the owner of the road and I felt whatever bound my heart falling off. When I got onto the br

I will remember you, motherland I will remember you motherland, when my days are gone. I shall remember the sweet sun that burned bright on our oiled backs, the old sun that decided never to set, to stay and let us play all day. I will remember them, your young men, those we used to play with all day, roll in the dust and fight, love and hate. I shall remember the moments when we believed in life and in love. I shall sing of thee, my motherland, you who suckled us on your old, withered breasts, you who whipped us and took care of our little wounds every day. I will remember you, lovely home, you who condoled with us when we died inside, you who wept with us and smiled with us. I shall leave someday and wander away, for a lion that grows around his father will never roar, and a chick that grows along his father will never get to crow. Chin up, motherland, for here you go unforgotten, here you are, not written with ink but carved with thorns, thistles and sharp stones in my heart. I sha