miss kemet

They would ridicule, they would laugh.

They would stand in her way with envy and wrath.

but she builds pyamids with the blocks they place in her path.

she knows the shadow of the great sphinx could be cast by a scare crow,

and so, her fears would rule her if she didn’t learn to let go…

when she did, miss kemet had become  Pharoah.

 

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“I am not a perfect soul, i am a soul perfecting… i am not a human being, i am a human becoming” -egyptian book of the dead

Fake flowers 

Dear inventor of fake flowers, why?

I understand that maybe you just wanted to capture beauty and keep it forever,

but don’t you let people believe that looks will last.

Didn’t you realise that there is beauty in aging,

that there is character to the bunch with a few wilting stems?

You can’t trick me into believing that there is beauty in perfection,

see I’ve tried to reach it and failed many times.

Starved of water, we all die,

so how can pretty be pretty without the spark of alive?

See, this bunch may have been beautiful at first glance,

but I’ve had it for years now and nothings changed.

No new sprouts, no death-

No need to nurture and love for that won’t affect these fakes.

I don’t even look at them anymore.

Beautiful as they may be, they are less beautiful to me knowing that this is all that they will ever be.

Dear lover,

please don’t ever buy me fake flowers with the hope that I will feel comforted by everlasting beauty.

Buy me ones that will die.

One’s that I will therefore cherish for every moment that they are alive,

One’s with bruised petals and wilting stems but still fragrant so that I can see that beautiful is more than meets the eye.

Dear inventor of fake flowers, why?

Poetry by the amazingly talented https://fontsize4poetry.com

Paper tigers 

Paper tigers on the paper trail, earning their stripes without fail.

The Hunter talks of taking the beast by its tail, while the shepherd tells comforting wife’s tales, to the rest of the villagers praying not to fall prey.
Those from the west begin to flee east, from the heardless beast, that didn’t roar to be heard. The eye of the Tiger speaks a thousand words, all of which are echos of death.
Prowling quietly, growling silently, crouching low before it pounces violently…

Shades of black and bright vermillion, like a frightening fire that freezes millions… The Hunter tries to ride the Tiger wild, the shepherd would rather see it tamed.
They all fail to understand. To the beast, everyone is game… regardless of where they may stand.
Paper tigers lead us to the paper trial…

Seed 

Let the Rain cascade onto me, nourish me.

Let the sun glow into me, give me life.

Let me serve my purpose, let me grow.

Let me pass down all that was taken in.

Let my leaves shed on this earth for generations to come.

Let me too, give life.

Fire fighter 

She felt it and It burnt. It burnt like an open flame as She fled her own cremation… They had warned her not to play with fire, so she couldn’t help but feel like, the very smoke that choked her, and made her eyes water, was a thing of her own creation… she ran, and ran, and ran, until she was no longer affixed to her asphyxiation. finally she stopped at the top of a long trail of ashy footprints, and pondered how she was going to fix her situation…
She hadn’t escaped unscathed, her heart was covered in burns of the third degree. Lost, she retraced her steps and began to sift through the charred debris… Inadvertently rekindling the experience. The flames were gone, but not extinguished, she missed his spark, his warmth, his light… They had made fear and joy too hard for her to distinguish, fuelling a fascination in her that was too fierce to relinquish…she would use all her will, and all her might, to cool her passion, in fright it might reignite… She was not about to let that happen, never again… She had felt it. And it burnt.

 

Fallen Angel 

Alone with my thoughts, the dead silence only broken by the fading sound of sirens… I try and fall asleep, hoping my problems drift away with me, but I’m almost scared to close my eyes, I’ve begun to find my dreams so tiring…
Alone with my thoughts, reflecting on the battles I fought, that now only exist in my memories… The sirens intensify, as I mentally testify, pleading guilty to petty crimes, but judging myself for felonies…
And I was alone with my thoughts, burdened by sin, until a fallen angel lent me her wings… I remain alone, but now the solitude is comforting, and my thoughts are with her… The fallen angel, that made peace with my demons…
The sirens pass into the pitch black silence. I unknowingly shut my eyelids, I’ll be alone again tommorow, but this time I won’t mind it…

 

Shock therapy 

Distorted echoes bounce around your walls more and more frequently… you inevitably tune into the frequency, just to see, if you find any truth at all…

You soon become entangled in the cables of fables…now no longer able, to tune out, eternally blinded by the noise. permanently haunted by hysteric images , which you can’t stand not to understand…

logic remains elusive, the chaos becomes delusive, you begin to feel violated as the pitch becomes intrusive, tsunami sized radio waves wash what’s left of your hope away.

Reoccurring Visions of manic men exploding, leave your frame of mind in panic mode. Your eyes overflow, as you feel you’re soul erode. gradually losing your Senses to a sensory overload…

now even with your ears shut and your eyes closed. you can still make out the menacing melody that kidnapped you back to the worst days… you signal SOS, no ones receiving, your pleas are silent phrases…

your sense of direction evaporates into a maze, your days diffuse into a daze, ever more awestruck and amazed, as your  ideals are quickly bewildered in a wilderness of satellite signals beaming…holding out for a sign that an Editor erased.

The negative nostalgia inflicts intense headaches. you seek brief moments of  refuge while you try to get ahead of it, Like a medic, mid epidemic, trying to find the antidote, yet destined to get infected, by a plague they once rejected as a threat….

Symbols of peace turn to rubble, you feel your heart burst with your bubble, while watching structures you trust turn to dust…Your future steeled in the rust,  soon you accept that disaster is your fate, although not one you deserve.

The virtual torture you’ve rapidly grown to hate, integrates with your mental traits… The strength you tried to demonstrate only decorates the hot plate as an hors-d’oeuvre…

Political predators swarm in, to capitalise on your vegetative state…

 

Trapped 

An inert volcano, on the brink of eruption. A righteous man’s morals, plugged into a system of intrinsic corruption. A lustful virgin, experiencing an unwanted  seduction.
The mind in a mine field. Striving to Turn a blind eye, for fear of the explosions exposure might yield.

The snow flake under the Suns radiation. The high IQ, in a bad education. The comfortless courter, perceiving their own infatuation. A heart on a fish hook, straining to overcome times own temptation.