Is that smile for me?

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Love is how we discover our inner poetry

Depression is usually a route

But voice, the realisation that we need to be be heard is how we keep it.— % &

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Are you leaving for your mental health or because you are a coward?

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Dear writer,

You've lingered in that place you call inspiration for too long
That place where your writings get their velvet touch
That place that saps a little of you
Dries a little of you
And restricts the beating of your big broad heart

Swim
Feel your blood flow,
Live the life unsure for man but thriving like the sun
Invoke the muse-emotion for a grief poetry
But save your self, honey
Swim out of that pool of grief.

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Today marks the beginning of the "soon" you have waited for all your life.

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It is time


It is time to mumble forth our affirmations into its season.

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By all means, Win!

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History, accounts of wars and the evil men did
The story of the frontline and the truck in-between
The drunkard's tale and a mad man's brew
Of ovations and envy in one's morning dew
Ego, fear or id
Fact or fiction, stories are formed from the perspective seen.

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The villain became the protagonist and the story was good too.

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Whether we dance like a rejoicing witch
or do the mohobelo, ancient African style

That the things we do, free men did
or the guilt we choose to carry as purging for our deeds

Freedom is what we make of time
It is the flooring of our own world

Moulded by our minds
or hands as real as the conviction it pleases our soul with

That like molten magma or pellets of gold we shall be free to live
to splash the joy of our freedom on the nearest soul

But wherever we choose to be
whatever we choose do,
Freedom eventually, would be what we make of it

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