Her heart breaks, not for the player and his promiscuous ways, but for the homeless lady she sees in the same spot everyday. Her heart bleeds, not for gucci bags or anything else she might wish to keep. But because she heard about families in Grenfell towers burning in their sleep. Her heart weeps not because of her flaws or insecurities, but for the mother of that little boy that was stabbed on her own high street. She’s human too. Full of her own doubts regrets and fears. But her angelic eyes would just not let her cry, shallow tears.
Feelings that had blossomed into something beautiful, thrown back into the undergrowth, like a beam of light sucked into a black hole. I couldn’t see the picture, you couldn’t play the roll… So we fought what felt right, and turned dawn back into night. We buried our emotions… a thought that has left me terrified. because I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure I burried mine alive…and that is such a cruel thing to do, to anything at all…
They stand against the light to cast shadows, that make our paths dark, it’s no wonder we got lost on our way home. We once sat on gold thrones, now we beg thieves for a place in our own home…
we’ve been taught to fight their shadows, with the shade we throw, while the grave they dug for us grows and grows…Go to their schools to borrow our own ideas, the innovators become imitators, in hopes to integrate, into their hateful ways..
When they can’t break us, they’ll force us to bend, and blend, into the violent trends they set without regrets. They’ll pretend to be our friends, tell us they mean “no offence” …while keeping our very being misunderstood.
Until we end up in a shadow war with no end. Cast by burning crosses ,pointed hoods…and fear
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.
“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
A zebra, made to stand out, forever wild and free.
It seeks to rid itself of those that would ride on its back.
It strives to know it’s stripes, not to earn them…
For with that wisdom comes a new genesis of elegance, the birth of the peagusus.
Made to fly high above life’s perplexus…controlling the reins of its own destiny… Reigned over by no man.
Forever wild and free…
living in a concrete jungle, throwing dice… charming Snakes, hoping ladders don’t bite.
Be a brick in a building, hope to become the corner stone.
Plant a seed in your own soil, hope that you can make it grow… Hope… that’s what you do, when you throw dice… We’re playing Snakes and ladders with our lives.
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.
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?
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