Sola ellipsis

I am mad. I am mad that I still can't seem to find peace. I am mad that the first man I ever entrusted with my innocence was a no show. I am mad at myself for holding on to that bitterness for far too long. I am mad because it was in my nature to give. I am mad at the world for showing me that to do so was a mistake. I am mad at the instability that wasn't able to nurture me. I am mad at the toxic masculinity that has made my physical appearance the sum of being. I am mad at the women who did the same. I am mad that my sexuality alone is a topic of discussion. I am mad at the pretense. I am mad at the deception. I am mad that my psychology left me with a deficit. I am mad that I have to try that much harder. I am mad that my voice wasn't louder. I am mad that being authentic can be an offense. I am mad at the misconceptions about success. I am mad at the snakes and ladders in the wilderness. I am mad that love is a commodity. I am mad that love is disposable. I am mad at...

The gentle and rhythmic hum of the train soothed Aurora into a dull lull. As she peered through the carriage window, with one eye open- a picturesque field of grass spanning as far as the eye can see steadily came into view. What a beautiful and vast kind of nothingness she thought to herself. While others would have seen this and raveled in the beauty of nature and life. She instead saw the endlessness that is an affliction on all living things. We live, we die so others can live and die. The pointlessness of it all. Caught off-guard by the often absentminded straying of her thoughts, she shook her head violently to her left as if to wake herself from that dark place she knew all too well. Looking down at hands that were cradling shaky knees, she pulled up the right sleeve of a worn-out winter sweater. The grey stitches were starting to venture out and free loose thread that swayed along to the beat of the train. Aurora took one long breath in, closed her eyes altogether and mastere...

A decade worth of prose and poetry Writing us into pieces we author for our compilation Word never subject to interpretation -           we are who we are Where you begin is where I end In the same orbit we circle infinitely Minding the same garden of thought -           you know what I’m about to say before I say it Starting raging fires, we soothe the burn with whispered sweet nothings You take my hand, and worlds collide A coven of the blind leading the blind We stride in unapologetically Do you not know what you do to me? You bury yourself inside my body -           each time dying a million tiny deaths In the aftermath you quake and shake I give in and let myself go The most painful kind of pleasure, victim to all the feelings we can’t help but let show You demand to know if he could ever take me in like you do -           in my entirety I sh...

Infinite curiosity and wonder Holding up a woolen crown Weaved with a thread of certainty Kissing both the heavens and the earth Nestling the subtle nectar of unconditional love Tentatively peering past the constraints re-imagined by men The dirt and the musk veiled by bright lights Passively they walk past monuments and metaphors Little to no regard for the rotten underbelly The stench of hopes lost, dreams discarded -           And complacency accepted as a norm Ill fitted realities we slide into Like slick robes we put them on Forsaking a most sacred calling While we abide a most trivial and misguided mental oppression Somehow convinced that this is the best we can offer Prison or a coffin… Dying before we are dead- a routine we practice too often The shoes we cannot fill are too grand A history we cannot placate Because what we are is the change they died for Unsatisfied, but we remain...

Blood stains on the pavement The footprints of an extinguishing life force Squalor, death and rust They care not for us Gunshots, disembodied screams And the ever-present swan song of police sirens Little kids play on concrete streets No place to house innocence when home possesses no safety, Nor does it offer security In the men we can never trust, devoid of wisdom and humility     Masculinity as fragile as a wine glass We once wore deviance as the voice of the silenced Now we neatly tuck it away together with all the agency of our womanhood We weave street lights like moths to flame My brothers forget us My sisters allow it And the children cannot help but witness it They placate our existence with the amnesia we find at the bottom of a bottle They wait like vultures They poison us with unsolicited prescriptions, When only they carry the sickness Young boys raise hands and fists For a cause rooted only in violen...

It's dark outside but we can never seem to sleep Knees weak and my legs shiver Inside my thighs is sweet nectar  Your fingertips leave traces of the treasures you seek Down my spine as I inhale you into my lungs You paint a thousand  mosaics with your tongue Your body against mine We hardly take note of the sunshine In your company, the right words I struggle to find A tentative passion ignites inside But I am not yours and your are not mine And when it's time to leave it's all these thoughts I try to hide   Because to lose control is to lose myself in you Best friends or lovers, from that delicate submission I could never recover.

The taste of your skin is reminiscent of the Holy roots of our kin Dark skin your fingertips trace a map of the rich history of where our ancestors have been Dark skin I hold you tight against my belly and my bosom The feel grounds and gathers me under fertile soil so I blossom Dark skin your words are like the intricate anatomy of home Landscapes that spread out as far as the eye can see Dark skin standing beside you is to be honoured as a queen Your love and understanding are a soft pillow that rebels the hardness of how this life has been Dark skin you are reassurance and security The likes of which cannot be compared Dark skin your sadness are the cufflinks that tie your heart to your sleeve Soft and tender I struggle every time you have to leave Dark skin the only doubts have never come from us In your subtitle ways and boundless kindness my tainted heart I entrust Dark skin of your affections the world will never be worthy I daydr...

There is absolutely nothing wrong with having options. In this day and age that has actually almost become the new "norm". What is VERY wrong with this new normal however, is having people feel that they are at liberty to treat you like a disposal commodity just because they are not at a place to understand the different emotional needs of the next person. So to the ladies, I implore you to distance yourself from a situation that requires too much of your energy all in a bid  to be the cool, laid back and understanding option that is so much easier to deal with than someone fathoming that you are an individual who thinks, acts and feels with decisiveness and intent. Yes, I myself have different people who fulfill different needs at any given time but for each of them I practice both empathy and thoughtfulness devout of any semblance of selfish desire to fulfill momentary wants. .

What kind of fish can you sink into the bottom of the ocean with shoes made of cement or lead? What kind of fish is it illegal to tie up, gag and bash in the head? A thousand ways to die my love, but for you I can dream of a million more. Entrail ribbons laced around a pole, a whimper underneath your pillow as you lay on your back. That knot in your neck I could permanently crack.  You seem nervous my love, shall I push you to the cold floor or shall I squeeze and squeeze until to the touch you become colder than snow? Blue fingertips and blue toes A deep freezer is a good place to store my woes Brandish your face with the detailed outline of a butt of a gun, laughter escapes my chest as you struggle to run. Why are you not turning around? One pop Two pops Red roses on the ground Last pop Just so the incessant whimpering will stop You must like make-believe stories my love, because just the other night I tapped your forehead with a hammer. My beautiful unicorn. Singing y...

I am a romantic and I am a writer. I could write a library's worth of love letters about a single glance from a passing stranger. Emotion, vulnerability, brokenness are the only things that truly move me. Some writers question your authenticity when all you create is based on feeling. Feeling low, feeling dejected, feeling hurt. But ask yourself, if your art has always been your therapy before you were brave enough to give voice to your fears and tears then who really is the  better writer? Does it even matter? I've been questioned/doubted for my writing style since I can remember. But if it is MY ART. Whatever it is, how do you doubt the validity of words coming from your chest as opposed to your mind? I'm not trying to sound "smart". I am merely trying to find healing through expressing pain in pages. You might think, "one trick pony". It's cool. I get it. But you can never assume to judge me because all I've ever related to is ...

Do you remember when voices from the past called me to your side Do you remember when both our heartbeats were the toughest to hide Do you remember when you called me a gift because to you time had never been too kind Do you remember when you said my stubbornness was my strength and not a weakness Do you remember the holes we patched over like a seasoned seamstress Do you remember when you touched me and it felt so good I couldn't imagine how I had existed with so much less Do you remember when we got home and all you wanted to see was my body underneath that dress Do you remember when you whispered love and chuckled like you were new to this Do you remember when our eyes met and it was as natural as coming up for a kiss Do you remember when you made me laugh until my belly was sore Do you remember when you promised you wanted to give me all that and more Do you remember when the cancer started to grow Do you remember when we started fighting and we didn't even know...

They smear stains on my truest form Scotched fingerprints on every crevice of my brittle soul They fall like rain over any surface that defines the essence of my being Weak knees quake I don't ever breathe I break Save me Space encloses me in an asylum that houses stray thoughts They haphazardly attach to the cracks in my voice Sinking feeling I am barely living Save me Night terrors await from behind my door They take me everyday and I can't sleep anymore They nurse me against ghosts from the past They whisper "It will always be just you and us" Save me They drive me to drink On the verge of collapse I linger on the brink The weight of the world crushes my shoulders They throw bricks that hit me like boulders The ground seems to open up so I barrow below Time catches up and my heart beats slow Save me They drag at the seams of my clothing They stire the dust waking sleeping dogs that lie I suffocate cries under my pillow The fea...

Depression latches on to every fibre of your being. It sips down to your bone marrow and it permeates through every skin pore. It has no rational thought, and does nothing but collapse into utter despair. Nothing said can even make a dent on the crushing weight of hopelessness. It is a powerful reminder of the truth behind loneliness. Why do I think this way? Why am I the only one feeling this way? Am I crazy? Why do I feel so much? Why aren't the things that make other people happy making me happy? You question your own sanity to the extent that you would much rather die than to continue to live in the dark abyss that exists inside your head. The irony being that the most humane way to get any semblance of relief/peace is by ridding yourself of the burden of life. And you always know and see the ripple effect of how your mind works/how you relate to the world, because you see the people around you slowly die inside everyday trying save you from yourself. Always feeling like a spe...

The way he moves screams - Purpose The way he silently sheds his tears -Speaks of remembrance Intoxicated, when his eyes dance -Living in Limbo, caught in a trance Such is the duality of men -Silk and sand -Light and darkness -Both here and everywhere Both mine and yours -In every way Oh, and its in the things he won't say -Reading between the lines like a riddle Always black or white -Never indecisive, never in the middle It is all in the childlike maturity -Of soothing words spoken in vulgarity

To want to see the best in people, is why most of us keep trying. Sometimes those same efforts are also the reason we wear heartache like a Scarlet A- stained indefinitely by naively hopeful premises. I only hope that my girl children have an easier time discerning between the real and the fake. Always remembering that to care is never a mistake. Also keeping in mind that charisma and confidence have the potential to sell you any number of dreams for as long as you are in t he market. Anyway, good and honest people will always exist though, just last night he tells me, " Ahhh shit, I think you're going to make want to be your best friend"...That remains the sweetest thing a heterosexual male has said to me yet. Not, "You're beautiful..." No. A simple, "I like you as a person". And THOSE are the true gifts of having an open heart  💜

Sweet delicate premise When the glint of his laughter catches itself in the corners of his eyes His conviction sets him alight -borrowing from childlike innocence The fumes embrace my body like the scent of incense Hands wide he peels me apart -but never too gently And with the same ease his fingers gather me -holding me against his earthy strength The foliage of trees withstanding years past He is frenzied dazzle and fire -I am messy glitter and desire When he is circled by the primatively possessive  fragrance of my love - Just the thought of him enchants me They say we are slaves to the toxic dance of our own heartbeats - But I remain intoxicated by his clutch How do we rotate in each other's gravity while uncertain of so much? So I return home to the only place I feel like I belong - The spaces we can't help but exist in always seem so wrong Faces in the crowd: the sparks that ignite time and time again - But we are addicted to this most righteousne...

The trauma of experiences that wound your spirit is the best inspiration  to write. When fuel and solace is found in suffering rather than pain, any inkling of being cured of the insistent aching  always seems like a dark abyss of giving way to healing or more hurt. Being open to either is the proverbial key to another sense of self outside of survival and leaves room for living. And THAT remains the loneliest reflection of self actualisation.

Sweet delicate premise Balled fists and closed eyed kisses Standing in your shadow is luminous Morphed adaptations subject to your touch Latching onto unstable footing Quivering under the weight of the bittersweet taste of your monastery You head the pulpit Where only ever your testamony must ring true So I bend and fold to fit biased accounts of realities I know too well Student and teacher Annointed caricatures of an Adonis complex You are the preacher Never choosing me as I choose you Bad romances A cult never devout of devotees So you give out a piece of us Played like a fiddle by your lust There you go dancing again to the sound of your own beat While I stand behind you watching my feet Masterful wielder of the mightiest sword Never sparring the rod Silently unseen lashes and cuts Failing and flailing Trying to latch you on to my bust The heady aroma of us It's the glint of captured starlight Both far away and so near So I keep reaching For th...

Eyes shut I lay awake as my mind wanders Half asleep only my body slumbers I touch, see and feel Black-outs Never knowing what's real But the pills give me my favourite me Who cares about lapses in memory No more drumming along I sing, dance and remain free Free from insecurity Free from the doubt So if they can package happiness Who am I to live without? No anger No pain I don't shudder at the sound of my own name Oh so utterly devine For a mind perverse such as mine Candyfloss soft Chocolate and cake Merry little lamb Never dwelling on mistakes Re-acquinted with my poetry Writing again so organically It's part of me Joy in the bottom of a bottle Joy at the burning out of a bud Joy running through veins Setting my thoughts on fire But it is only the packaged happiness that gets me higher