PoetryGalore

So poëties korrek ’n Skrywer (of ’n digter, eerder) se artistieke (of beter, poëtiese) lisensie, in sarsies geïndoktrineer Wat nou woorde soos druppels laat val op die leser se voorkop tot absolute waansinnigheid. Ja, so polities korrek (of nie, rêrig) Die egoïstiese arties Wat met bloed, sweet, trane (en hoogswaarskynlik verf) die swart-wit spotprent rooi, geel en blou skilder tot volkome autoriteit. Sonder enige toestemming met minder as geen weerstand speel die bassis loeiende tone van “onskuldige” manipulasie Die viool só gehanteer om (op ’n keurige maat van een-twee-drie-vier)

The descent into darkness My soul resonating With terminal tones, critical chords Melodies of death and despair Harmonizing painful memories And solemn symphonies Smiling. Smirking. Laughing. With a crooked grin dancing Deriding Depression dauntingly For today I am not his Paramour, gladly, today I am not his hostage. Jump-skip Skittles in my soles Chit-chat med han och hon och de For today I am free to roam In his domain save the chains And hopeful to see his captives Join me in flight, and enjoy the light At night monstrosities are up and about But (behold and lo) without Their hook they are not so proud Screaming and shouting hard and l

As the sun waits to be devoured by night So does the little girl wait to drop her hood The little red riding hood Scarlet stained, crimson painted deems Her fate doomed, story ruined. Yes, at best, the girl waits to be murdered. She is yet reminiscent of the deeds Of the big bad wolf The screams of humiliation, agony The pleas for arrest but regardlessly Abused, reduced to hate, rape and pain Endlessly, brainwashed to see this as her destiny. But the wolf cries—he does recall The times...and does see the price Of his long-lasting vices He apologizes, in spite of his Fictional demise, he fights inside For in twilight he confides in the

Do black and white not make grey? Zero, one, add two and Black is white is grey. Yea, that’s me. The parchment Time and again erased and defined Surely must hold more information Than the blank page? They may neglect me Yes, for their very existence But they know their roots are deep Let alone they are me. It is said one is defined by properties Though I do not agree I mean, reality is arbitrary More accurately, we define the properties. Let me not digress or diverge To assign the relevant signs For I am on the verge Of losing my

He stands on the edge of the cliff And listens to himself The words resonate But in a sense they are fake Fingertips yet bleeding Blood dripping drop by drop on the ground As red as his mind Who feeds this self-destruction Good in a way, yes Abstinence is bliss Or ignorance, maybe Perhaps it’s waiting for Death’s kiss Who? What? Where? Why? Why? Why? Rejoice misplaced The boy misled Meek and weak Who simply seeks a strong face A furry hand to defeat the mind Deranged teeth to buy some time Pointed ears to hear the signs And playing the game he finds Only himself, split.

The desire growing while very well knowing that you might very well not know me at all. I close my eyes try not to cry and hope to die from this endless fall. In dreams and fantasies of joy and happily whispering into your ear embracing your body ...And I slow down slowly my heart beats faster; I hope and hope solemnly your albaster skin glows of joy and happily calling out your name gripping you tightly For tears and fears disappear when laughter sounds louder, lips lock and hips rock ‘till the focus is broken, the silence has spoken that this might very well be all.

Dear Nobody, (Please return to sender) The emptiness to fill up as void as the words to fit the page As non-existent as the audience (so unforgivable) For forlorn ornaments and sands of time timely (so undeniable) Decorate the insides of my mind my heart “my” life (so untrue) …and comfortably numb, actively passive, as a live virtuality… …all I can do is laugh.

Mania 2014/08/23 Laughing in the face of insanity …has become second nature to me, now, …as closing my eyes has become the portal to madness. The gravel path leading from the door with the blood blotches Murders of ravens and crows in the dim forest where I belong. Accents of shadow and mist to my solitude Red orbs peering deep into my fear The only place I can come to laugh, to cry to let hysteria feed my tongue …and find false peace In delusional dementia And identity In schizophrenia So much fun hot-cross buns and sixty-eight butterflies baking in the sun.