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poets corner 14 ( relapses or corpses)


  • Go tell your mother cause i dont give a f**
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ey yo baldi..i recently let the pen fall asleep on the pad..but i was awoken by a thunderous voice inside my head telling me
to dust off my blue swade pen and start the i feel that ...overcome and conquer...
people be juding me by the way that i walk even when i talk they say i got swagger like i be from new york..#print that bitches!

Blaq Inq

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As I walk through this valley of shadows I expose...
this world that communicates without helloes or greetings.
Where life's just a theory of a heart beating,
my souls screaming to live in a world worth saving.

We're living in fancier houses but in homes that are broken,
living in a planet that's full of males but has few men,
preaching of world peace but the peaceful we condemn,
God when will the eyes of the son of man open?

When thing go wrong we cry "humanity?" but act inhumane,
we're spending fortunes on medicine, yet we cant cure this pain
that spreads like a plague, relieving us of sanity, I pray...
that my son arrives in a world that wont lead him astray,
that fame doesn't blind him from finding his Louis Lane,
claiming his innocence and leaving his purity stained.
May unity prevail and wickedness fail and on that day...
Let it be known: Samson found true strength after losing his great mane
..when violence is a solution death always precipitates..


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Let it be known: Samson found true strength after losing his great mane

hello. who are you :)

manunkind hey.
- soul activist. poet. flower. fairy -


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...and sometimes the many truths of the place not found in the most glamorous. always there though. always there. in every day. in every way. but we are the no longer listening you see. and there are lessons abound, finding remnants of ourselves there in what we dont or is it wont see, with us building only new boxes and forever peeking in straight lines.

and you will find it a blessed thing one day when you dont change the channel.


mzwandile tells a story
his voice, from and beyond the mountains
and under my skin

memory, the unsteady walking stick
that guides
this lonely, wandering tale
a portrait
it remembers home

lost to the pieces of sense that remain
a forced surrender to disdain
longing, made mockery by time

the speaking scars on his face
marks against my listening heart
they wail, wanting to know
but where would you begin
with their eyes that havent seen
i stare in understanding
of your dry days and exposed ways

this solitude of suffering
that has strength weakened
and dignity questioned
a once have that has not

and he would have his peace
the giving of the idle
the open pastures of their grace
sincerity in life

upon return,
a waterfall of survivals oppression
i saw tears in a grown mans eyes
and it touched something dying in me.

nam' mzwandile, ndikhumbula ekhaya.

- soul activist. poet. flower. fairy -


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Here's one I wrote on my phone in cla** yesterday

The emptyness cannot be filled
The pain cannot be healed
The confusion cannot be cleared
The memory cannot be dismembered
The self cannot esteem itself higher
The paranoia cannot be secured
The embarrasment cannot be unblushed

Power ambition, trying to untire the "not" and disempower the "cannot"

I don't understand why it still matters
Am I unduly praising it for my other matters?
I drown myself in fermented waters
My inner eye pisses salty waters.
"Why was the worker shot? Because he protested... Why was the negro shot? Because he was there. This is the gratuitous (without cause) violence against Black people that so called pure marxist can't comprehend" Frank Wilderson.


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Etv late news

Etv late news edition
Help me to make my decision
Saskia's booty on my television
Dalai Lama on a peaceful mission
All the trouble has me wishin
That the mideast run out of ammunition
Long term goals of debt revision.
Brave frontiers of donor-op incision.
Janjaweed in somalia-malnutrition
Etv late news edition

i'm on my modal shit


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hello witness in silence.


from across the room
you blow, like a breeze
in the quiet corners of a wanting soul
soothing haunting longing
there but

from across the room
with eyes that caress my pain
you pull me into you
and i like the way you feel
in all ways
you feel good to me

from across the room
you travel my being
have me seeing things
youre such a tease
but i, i am privately pleased
from across the room

i turn to smile at the silence
and how it gazes over me
life giving
an uninterrupted flowing
the controlled lust of secret pa**ion
and we’re the watchers

a do not disturb sign

you, me, across the room.
- soul activist. poet. flower. fairy -


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hello witness in silence.
howdy sis....
funny...something told me to log in today.

note to all and sundry...and their goldfish.
No longer WIS , Now it's "Nar8"
Short , sweet , apt.

smack me if i already posted this one:

Pity died

03 May 2009 at 22:52 | Edit note | Delete Uploaded

On bellville station
Station in life
Between the durbanville busstop and columbia fisheries.
What dishes r these?
Best served cold.
In this unpretty gritty city
Sing a ditty
Of the fong kong kings and stolen baane and stolen ruby rings.
Innercity prose.
What types of antidotes are those.
Chines tailored clothes
More anchor tenants close
To see little somalia rose
Herbalist flows and
Loan shops
One stop
And john cena flip flops
Walkways paved
With bootleg nollywood under noses of fat cops.

the panic!

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« Last Edit: August 24, 2009, 04:06:08 PM by the panic! »


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until the people in this club are no longer here and you are no longer here and i am no longer here

Nice twist.


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one month notice're gone...nobody notice.

(a poem about renting and moving)

nomadic movements.
prevent large scale home improvements.
always near to major transit routes.
whether in john drake formals or dickies boots.
innercity travel and daily busk.
does uprooting result in a human husk?
interesting paradigm this.
when i call insurers and memberships to change their contact lists.
changing neighbours.
but attitutes stay the same.
the ebb and the flow.
saps nightly siren lullabies always there.
whether you come or you go.
whether you rich or poor.
its the predominant soundfrequency on the air.
metres squared.
no inch is spared.
your life in boxes of coardboard.
We circulate the cash between elliots & van lines of stuttafords
we are the renting ma**es , we are the flippin hoard.
we are the ants that gather the crumbs to the nest
and accumulate profits at shareholders behest.
we never rest.
but never with stability blest.
compound interest the ghost that press on the chest.
we are no better than the breed of bedouin bedded down in tents
no better than the refugee-like sediment in temporary unrest settlements
never resting
steal your levis from the line quicker than your blinking.
soon as the lease agreement has dried from your hasty inking.
wake up your neighbours screaming ...and what the heck was i thinking.

"Witness in silence"
, I chronicle untold tales of
modern human violence.


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some people

some people fleeing some other people.
in some country under the sun
and some clouds.

they leave behind some of their everything,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now sees itself reflected.

on their backs are pitchers and bundles,
the emptier, the heavier from one day to the next.

taking place stealthily is somebody's stopping,
and in the commotion, somebody's bread somebody's snatching
and a dead child somebody's shaking.

in front of them some still not the right way,
nor the bridge that should be
over a river strangely rosy.
around them, some gunfire, at times closer, at times further off,
and, above, a plane circling somewhat.

some invisibility would come in handy,
some grayish stoniness,
or even better, non-being
for a little or a long while.

something else is yet to happen, only where and what?
someone will heed toward them, only when and who,
in how many shapes and with what intentions?
given a choice,
maybe he will choose not to be the enemy and
leave them with some kind of life.
- soul activist. poet. flower. fairy -


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  • Bruin Storm
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Twist of the Warmonger

Boooom!!...she enters with eloquence
Got my scarlet laced blade in hand…slight tan
Fresh from the battlefield like dead blood corpuscles...
Muscles spasms in place…my knuckles bruised by static grip
Remorse gone without a trace…er… and compa**ion is???
That all changed the very minute my eyes kissed her face
That last battle really hit my cerebral hard…eish cells charred
Kinda felt my spirit intervene when I dropped those K.O. bars
Sick…like sars…how did she get here?? We only met once…womb?
Let me allow my psyche to script my next battle formation…Perhaps
That will push her over the edge into the mental den

Clothed with the mentality of a ruthless shogun
I could show guns…or just project lyrical blades to form a brains maze
Leave my opponent in a daze…shame he in submission phase
Add flames to my meta-darts and leave his thought pattern to braise
Eish…there she enters again…came through my warm & fuzzy reminiscence
Some call her the hearts spiritual presence…of heavenly essence
The last time I checked my a**ignment pleased hells residence
Why would this product of Zion wanna hug my soul???
I battle myself on a daily…why does she insist on our fusion??
She keeps attacking my heart like cardiac arrest…in reverse
I had to let myself loose…take a step back… blessing or curse???
As I dropped my sword…looked up in the sky and saw a white dove
No turning back after this…moment of sheer bliss
I grabbed her hand and said…will you marry me…Love?


  • onek1nd is superman on the eiffel tower, saving the world from parasites.
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I'm that light in the dark. The glow in the shadow.
The life and the spark that grows in the ghetto.
I might play a part when they rise to the task. It's special...look at how they fly to the top.
I've got warmth in my heart. In their minds I'm a god and I'm forging their path when aligned with the stars.
At moments I'm harsh.
Stroke them till they're broken and scarred. Not leaving till their oceans are parched.
But a ghost from my past spoils my exploits and exposed the facade.
I'm not the only one that was chose for this part.
He's got the onus for controlling their march.
My reign's over...I'm leaving.
My tears fill the air as I'm grieving. A cloud hangs over me. I'm beaten.
Their new king I accept through this act of high treason.
There'll be a spring in my step when I return next season.
I put Religion, Opression and Weakness underground and when i looked down i felt myself begin to GROW.