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…