-writers

writer
-writers
everyone thinks

they have a novel inside them
and you do
it’s getting it out
that will prove the essence of you

W.E.

Let’s be frank,
it’s one thing to put words on a page,
it’s another to put them down effectively,
it’s yet another to illicit emotion,
and another to captivate the reader and have them panting for the next line.
But to change someone’s life, now there is what a real writer perspires for,
nay, that is what a human aspires to.

-W.E.

misfit

misfit

Too many are quick to reach for the numbing pills of societal conform,
to comforting others with the elixir of  norm,
when those who are living are dancing in storms,
war torn, dying, and reborn,
forever sworn, oath of dusk and supplication of dawn,
unceasingly misfit until the final horn.

And thus you mourn, wail and mourn,
breath of heaven at the wake of morn,
can’t sew this fabric from 1948 worn
forlorn, unborn, bereft and torn,
Trying to be a rose, alas, instead, societies thorn.

-W.E.

We’re not meant to fit.
Not all of us,
I always knew this,
but I was never sad about it.
I was always content and happy.
In fact, being a Misfit, is not as derogatory as society wants to believe, I’m redefining the word, as has Lidia who I’ve stumbled across in the last couple of days and am impressed by.

Have a watch and listen, there’s nuggets in there.

Who sees you?

i write2
I write in darkness,
So you may see me in light.

Alas, no one sees me in plainness of day,
But at night, in full site.
-W.E.

 

She got it fairly right, sort of, not really.

“…. you show everything in your work,
…..but nothing in real life”

I agree, somewhat. I’ve tried, many a time,
but people don’t see me in real life.

They read me though, yes, they read me.
My hand, they see my hand.

“…there’s different ways of seeing”, she said.

Ah yes, and none of those ways work for me

So I’ll stick to writing in darkness.

I’ve purposely hidden in the shadows, never divulging my lust for the written word in person to people I grew up with, yet here I am in a world of strangers, and you have pieces of me that the closest people around me don’t have.

People don’t know what to do when you give them something heavy to hold.
That’s why I choose not to offload it to them, makes life so much easier.

I don’t want anyone in my vicinity to ever look at me in disdain. It happened once and I was mortified at how someone can use a vulnerability against me with such raw spite.
Never again.

-W.E.

Nightwriter-2

a-vision-in-the-night-4

She wore thick framed glasses and her colour was conviction,

Assured of herself, black, poised, my affliction,

She taps me gently on my fingertips wakes me for inscription,

She knows me well, feeds my addiction.

Wears her prose in balanced meter, long pauses of silence,

At times white noise, piercing violence,

Enamoured with adornments of the highest order, black diamonds,

She knows how to wake me and be my guidance.

Only a lover would know her and how she allures,

She’s divorce material, an obsession with no cure,

She’s the last person my wife would ever conjure,

Her name is The Night, black majestic grandeur.

-W.E.

Conversations

tumblr_inline_nduk5lUqCi1syb4jt

What if we had those conversations

even if only in our imaginations

dissertations

between each other that might unite our nations?

Palpations

of societies trivialisations

touching probing, questioning,  discussing agreeing, disagreeing but opening up the discoursation

an invitation

to awakening from hibernation

to unhinge our inclinations

to egotism and trepidation

to one another

to humanisation

of the other.

We talk over, through and past one another, it’s time to talk TO each other.

-W.E.

A Poets Repentance.

repentance

How can poets repent?

When they carry the sin of every man and woman that lived before them and that will follow?

Maybe they don’t want to repent because repentance means giving up past vices
the vices that become their muses
the muses that fill their hearts with so much blood it tsunami’s into their mind
their mind can’t contain it
breaking ocean beds
smothering shores and pouring out into the pages of the city
swirling through drains
bubbling up through fountains
sweltering shop walls
drowning city halls
revitalising city parks
softening the foundations of sky scrapers
floating away old wooden shacks that have outlived their time
washing away the drunkenness of taverns
sobering the park bench inhabitants
cleansing the lanes from human waste.

Maybe they can’t repent because repentance means they can’t leave pen dents any more.
If they can’t dent a page
with love or rage
with lavender or sage
with wisdom of their age
with paying homage
to their forefathers gauge
how can they take the stage
of loves rib cage
give and engage
with the human masquerade?

Maybe they will be forced to repent
in which case
they’ll be the future generations embrace
the fire souls solace
the writer, rapper or activists brace
the stencils for children to trace
the soldiers about face of about face
the disbelievers worship place
the lovers lace
The freedom fighters giving chase
the farmers growth space
the peoples abandonment of haste.

Whichever way you look at it, a poet can’t repent, there’s things to be said which only the love off their tongue can expel and exorcise the demons out of us all with.

Priests, holy men and war mongers will all but surrender under the poets megaphone.

Be it as they may, torture them kill them or cut out their tongues, they cannot and will not repent.

To repent is to turn their back on everything past and future, severing the voice boxes of the children to come.

So off to martyrdom they go inviting death so that words may live.

Repentance after all is for the wicked!

-W.E.