Penury...

The poverty of the market place is evident,
When he masks his goddess of prosperity, 
Deceiving her enough to believe, 
That she will see only merry times ahead... 

She is kept in a position of pride,
Above the carpet that pacifies her from the grime that lies beneath.
Carrying the sensuality of a woman within her, 
Natures finest work of art, embodied in flesh and blood... 

Their boundaries seemed to be the grievance of his existence, 
Shot his swimmers just as they were about to ascend, 
Yet his passion quivers after two decades of brutal mockery, 
Submissive to his whim of preserving his virtue and vanity...

He saw sex, bosoms and lies, 
Not even the trinity of vices could lure him, 
Not alluring enough to suit his taste,
Not convenient enough to hide his lies...

Then they unearthed secrets lost in time, 
Those that spoke of thousands of years ahead,
Deranged years that oscillate within the benefit of doubt,
Reduced to a scenario of illusions...

For we can't seem to trade our hard earned fortune for the value of flesh, 
What's written in the stars is reduced to ashes, 
Superficial remorse from rags to riches and riches to rags,
Moments of elevation have now been misjudged...

He never fell pray to his inner demons, 
Though he fell pray to society's rigidity, 
Crafted by a despicable code of conduct,
He should have listened to the ghosts of the past instead...  

Web of lies...

One- third of a kiss,
For a weekend of bliss,
One-fourth of your dream,
To seal the deal,
A little bit of life,
Just to soothe a juvenile mind,

To morn woke us with the responsibility we never chose to partake,
An opulent reason to slouch,
Scarred inspiration that impaled our vain,
As we run from the perfectionist dictatorship,
You're never too old to run...

So what does it take,
To go from Satan's derriere to Cupid companion,
But then again we're unique designs of nasty tapestry,
Sloshed by the lies we've spun,
We preserve actual kisses in a nebulous womb...

Right from a withered mire,
Born beneath the prophecy of untamed fire,
Lies that have conceived tears,
The elitist fancies that have masked our mysterious shenanigans,
Mascara to mask the clarion of fury within us....

Isolation has created a triumph new world,
A little star of inception,
Wicked icicles that fall upon us just before we have usurped our right to passage,
My stormy mind fails to glean the dream,
Sanity brings laughter right along to soothe my repentance...

The darkest of nights,
Within the deepest of shells,
The reminisce of yet another illusion,
The temporal of dreams,
Backfired when you never predicted you'd need to brace yourself....

I snort the winds of sleep,
I stay lost in a momentary lachrymal song,
Alert not to fall prey to labial seduction,
Melancholy entered my kraal and disturbed my placidity,
So as they say, kudos to fate...

( Edward Munch- Ashes)

Hello darkness, my old friend

Them smart alecks who said adolescence was a difficult were absolutely right, its just that me being within my jolly bubble just didn't want to listen to them. Recent events have being tiring and difficult and they make me wonder if things will ever get better and I am referring to more than just teenage angst. Why does the storm need top present itself to me when it is least wanted? I wonder why I feel so lonely all of a sudden, no wait I know why I feel so lonely. I am strange and that's what I''ll be forever and I soon shall get comfortably numb about that and meet other people ( hopefully) who are comfortably numb themselves about their eccentricity. But being a quirky person it a very straight forward and hostile environment can be strange and I really do not want to change the way I am. Is it this generation who's so obsessed with their I-pads and BBM's or is just that this is the way things roll or the spirit of this city or is it that I'm not much of a zeitgeist?

I need and need as much as a coke addict needs periodical snorts, to do something new, something worthwhile, go places, not be so bored, not be dead tired at 22 hours and 50 minutesbecause ever since the 15th of March, the last day of school I've pretty much haven't been a part of civilisation or more so the civilisation I'd like to be with. It's a blatant hormone over-secretion ( not scientifically) engulfed phase of life. I really want my kind of company. I need to something significant, but significance is a state of mind, ain't it? Oh well and till then hello darkness my old friend, I've come to talk to you again.

The midnight oil...

We walked amazed by haze,
Ready to win the battle we formerly lost,
Now as I unravel the real warrior,
The lie begins to show...

A pure mockery,
Harmony embraces acceptance,
Now lets cajole rigidity with intoxicating words,
I hereby unite with another gruesome story...

Is the flare hidden,
Or do we fail to glow?
But I assure you shall be illuminated,
After you clean the surface...

Now as the secrets are revealed,
We speak the unspoken ,
We burst the bubbles of our virtues,
Now the spirits have woken...

Now let your mind project,
The illusions of the burnt midnight oil,
The mirror shall always be a reflection of your horse-shoe smile,
Stirring of vacant laughter rings scornful bells...

For in a decade we thaw this frozen seduction,
You shall then hear the bustle of this sirens stilettos,
You shall feel the passion of her Aphrodian dreams,
So oblivious of that little slip...

For its just one right of passage,
That shields you from brutal crossroads,
So we can mock the shadows of loss,
Welcome the ghosts of a dead dream into the chambers of denial...

A numb veil,
Shall accompany me to the furnace of my identity,
Waiting to tantalise me to a different time,
There goes the otherwise tempestuous focus....

( Painting by Edward Munch)

Whore called fate...

This lonely bastard,
Waiting for the fade of the thorns,
Born out of wedlock,
He looks at the pain he has borne...

A wait for the morrow,
Eager to follow the shadows of luck,
Swims in the depth of sorrow,
Numb against the dearth of love...

For we're all born mammon of wine,
For a sweet sonnet,
A scent so fine,
For the jingle in our pockets...

Yet there are some,
Borne by chronic pain,
They're closer that relentless glum,
Even drives endurance insane...