Blog Feed

Posted in All

A RESSURECTION. A REVIVAL.

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
rebirth.

Today is the 31st March 2024, Sunday. Mark the date.

It’s windy, a little bit cold (depends on who you are asking, definitely not me). Dorky Perky Writes is back. Mpho, the writer, is back. Welcome to rebirth.

I came to a realization lately. I never chose writing, it chose me. Before I knew I wanted to write, I needed to write. With such cases, you can never run fast enough. You cannot hide, you cannot escape, because it always catches up. So when you want to ask me how and when I fell in love with writing, the answer is: the moment I knew how to write. Writing for me is a way of life and my words are easily one of the most beautiful parts of myself.

The past few months have been a lot. I did not take a sabbatical from writing, not intentionally at least. I was heavy with things I wanted to write, words I could not speak, words only pen and paper could make sense of. However, even as I laid my pen on the paper, my hand could not move. Even when the words were too loud in my mind, my fingers did not even shake. It felt unkind. It felt like a betrayal. It felt like the one thing I had always run to had turned its back away from me. That is how I know that when something is meant for you, it will always find its way back to you, because I am BACK and I am here typing this. As I tried crawling back to it, writing sprinted its way back to me.

With a fire greater than before and a burning passion to make a wording of life, love, death, birth and anything really. This time, I refuse to stop. I refuse to have my silent noise silenced by any form of whatever. This is a gift that has been ordained upon my life by God and that is a power nothing can stand against. Now let us enjoy the ride. I have stories to tell, rants to share and poems to breathe out.

A LITTLE UPDATE ON LIFE

I still love clouds. I have come to learn that I am far more passionate about the human mind and how the brain functions than I had led myself to believe.

I had my first flight experience and I think I did not appreciate it as much as I thought I would have, and I have learned to accept that that is okay. I am learning to accept that a lot of things are okay as they are, that it is okay to just be. I am learning to fall back in love with the world, even if it does not give most of us a lot to love lately. I am learning the depth of the meaning of “the smallest things matter”, because they do.

I moved to a new city, a new country and there is still a lot to unlearn and learn, but I think I am loving this life a little more each day. I am realising how blessed I am each passing day. There is a lot I am grateful for, and gratefulness is a beautiful state to be in.

I am learning that Mathematics is like The Fault In Our Stars, because it also explains that “some infinities are bigger than the others”. I have come to accept that Python is not just a snake, because I have chosen to spend a fraction of my life cracking problems in code.

Life has been rosy, and it also has not been.

I am learning that growth is one weird process, lol! However, I do not wish to be young again. I wish to prepare my soils, plant my seeds, water them, watch them sprout, harvest and then plant some more. I wish to be more grateful for my harvest, even if it is not perfect. Seasons differ, the drought is too bad sometimes, the winter too cold. I wish to be okay with the fact that sometimes there won’t be any harvest. Also, I wish to tend to my flowers because I deserve to bloom.

I am learning that reality and dreams can co-exist, and they should. I am learning that every step of my growth is important, no matter how small. I am learning how to hold myself accountable when I should, and how to know when I should not.

I am learning that I really do like talking and I like having these little rants, and that I do like silence too, that I can be both the blabber and the quiet observer.

And I have just come to the realisation that I have a lot I want to write about, a lot to share, a lot to say. Perhaps in the next blog post? Stay tuned, I’ll be back sooner than you know.

So much to tell you…

SPECIAL DEDICATION TO:

Lenny (Popi); thank you for reminding me that there is no point in trying to blend in when you are born to stand out.

Teddy; thank you for reminding me why I write and pushing my hand to move the pen without even being aware of it. Thank you for believing in me enough to remind me that I am really great. You have no idea what you have done.

.Mpho

Posted in All, Poetry

STONE COLD, WARM SOUL

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba

I cannot read you stories, nor can I write stories about you; so I will write stories about what you could have been.

m.g.m.

First cramp and baby, I was ready;

Ready to hold you in arms,

To promise you my eternal love.

Ready to go through the temporary heart-wrenching next hours of pain,

Just to finally bring you into this world.

 First trickle down my legs

And my swords and shields were set,

Ready to protect my little girl from the big bad wolves.

My precious fighter baby,

Fighter from the day you were conceived;

But my baby, they said the carpet was stained…red.

Red.  Red.

You were warning me,

Waving red flags,

Shouting “Mama, save me”,

But mama went numb to your SOS;

Shocked up and shut down.

I woke up from that dream baby,

Woke up without you in my arms

Or anywhere in sight.

Woke up to shameful doctors

And to your daddy’s tearful eyes.

Whispered “where is my baby”

With the answer already clear in mind,

That was not a battle you could have won alone.

Woke up to hesitant extra careful we are very sorrys.

Where was my baby?

Give me my baby!

When I fought to see you,

It was not to try affirming their words,

It was to try another fight,

But I’m not God.

Not even my motherly caress on your cheek

Could breathe life back into you.

All I wished for was to kiss you goodnight

But my only kiss was saying goodbye;

Goodnight till forever, my baby.

When your skin met mine,

All emotions fled me,

All but adoration and a love so loud,

So loud it rang through every pore of my being.

A noisy love for your pale limp figure;

You,

My burning love in a body of ice.

Cradled you to my chest,

Held on to you for dear life because

My baby, with you,

Stone cold felt like a burning comfort.

Grief is a hard chain on me,

My baby, I’m drowning.

Tell God you need me,

I need you.

This melancholy never gets old,

My peace is never quite real.

I am in pain, baby.

It hurts.

Come back,

Mama is lost without you.

…

still birth

my soul drowns in grief

still birth

I am still in disbelief

still birth

my baby is gone

still birth

it’s all too much to bear

still birth

how does a mother mourn the life of her child who never lived

who never lived anywhere but inside of her?

.Mpho

Posted in All

SUNFLOWER

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
“You shall recover. You shall”

I see you;
Your strength is running out
And you are becoming a weak bubble.


I see you;
Your diminishing light
Leaving mostly a dim brightness.
I see you;
I see darkness engulfing your soul.


I see you;
Deep within your eyes,
The pain you carefully try to cover.


I see you;
With the melancholic story that’s playing
Of dark secrets and a painful life.
I see you;
I see the past fighting to resurface.


I see you,
I see you wholly.


I see you;
With those broken smiles
And laughters with no ring to them.


I see you;
Fighting back those tears,
The tears daring to expose you.
I see you;
I see those emotions screaming to be let out.


I see you;
Unable to heal from everything,
Having those scars raw as ever.


I see you;
With that broken flight
And no urge to fly.
I see you;
I see your hope has run out.


I see you;
You pained creature,
Struggling to gather pieces of your shattered whole.
I see you;
Staring in pain at fragments of what you once were
And wondering how you fell so quickly from grace.


I see you;
I see every bit of your sadness.


I see you;
I see all of you.


I see you;
You who is unable to trust
Because to you loyalty long lost its meaning.
I see you;
With no ability to believe anymore
For what more shall it be than lies?


I see you;
I see you know nothing of truth.
I see you;
Harboring pain from those broken promises
Of forever that never happened.


I see you;
Possessing a new mindset and belief
That happiness is just a myth.
I see you;
I see your unshakeable mistrust.


I see you;
Staring at those papers,
With a strong denial that a pen will officiate it all;
Shivering as you sign,
Shedding tears for a home that no longer is.


I see you;
A burned out flame,
A fire that society has put out.
I see you;
I see the scarring of the judgements and the slights.


I see you;
Haunted by it all,
All the years of torment, of torture.
I see you;
Having all those flashbacks
And remembering all that you wish not to.


I see you;
I see your wild unforgetful brain.
I see you;
I see your daily struggle.


I see you;
Unable to forget them,
Those who gave you the best to live for.
I see you;
Mad at The One above
For snatching them away so soon.


I see you;
I see the pain of loss tearing you apart.


I see you;
Everything and anything,
Even the ones you think I do not.
I see you;
Maybe I should not
But I cannot help it when it’s all out there in the openness of your eyes.


I see you;
I see you fail constantly to keep it all consealed.


I see you;
You, my sunflower
With your withered leaves and fallen petals.
I see you;
Facing down
For there’s no sun to look up to.


I see you;
I see what the winter has done to you.


I see you;
I see you know I see.


I see you and it haunts me
That you are so immune to help.
I see you;
I see it’s hard,
But sunflower, for me, please keep going.


I see you and I’ll tell you this;
Winter does not last forever.
After some period, summer will come around,
And you my precious and most dearest sunflower,
You shall recover. You shall!

18/04/2020

.Mpho

Posted in All, Poetry

IF THEY COULD COME TO ME

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
Unfreeze my alphabet….

If only they could move to my fingertips,

Then would I free my heart from the chains;

Would I release my soul from this jail in me.

If only these words could come to me.

If only could they fill the chambers of my brain,

Then would I fight off this sadness, my tormenter;

Would I manipulate them to get the happiness, my desire.

If only these words could come to me.

If only could they be part of my imagination,

Then would I get these songs and find these daily tunes that fill me up;

Would I put down the lyrics to my melody and make my symphony a reality.

If only these words could come to me.

If only could they make up a sensible part of my creativity,

Then would I move on from the past that haunts me;

Would I forgive the ones that pained me.

If only these words could come to me.

If only the right ones could be put down,

Would I make up a logic suit enough;

Then would I find the remedy to the illness in me that seems chronic.

If only these words could come to me.

If only could they form just one meaningful phrase,

Would I get rid of my fears;

So I would find my voice and speak up.

If only these words could come to me.

If only this pen could put it down as I wished,

Would you have received a thousand letters and more on your doorstep;

Waiting to be opened so you would uncover the truth.

If only these words could come to me.

If only this paper never flew away when it should not have,

Would I have unlocked all my pores and put my heart out for you;

Then would you know of the beats I keep producing just for you to hear.

 If only these words could come to me.

If only my hands could not shake as I wrote,

Would I make you realize how I am left incomplete;

Because maybe a part of me ran off into your eyes yet you never really realized.

If only these words could come to me.

If only they could come as off swiftly as I imagined,

Would I bring an end to the brutality brought by my own deeds;

Then gain forgiveness from the ones I have wronged.

If only these words could come to me.

If only I could find the perfect arrangement of these syllables,

Would I put an end to my ignorance;

And seek answers to the questions I always wanted to ask.

If only these words could come to me.

If only I had words understood by the entire universe,

Would I look up to the clouds and gain knowledge;

Get to know if they could ever really understand the connection I feel,

Or maybe it’s all in my head.

If only these words could come to me.

If only these words could reach every end of my fibres,

Get into my head so I could feel them pulsing through my veins,

Pool up every cell of my imagination,

The centre of my creativity;

Cloud my vision like tears,

Stay like wax in my ears,

Become the saliva on my tongue,

The air I take in and out of my nose;

If only these words could come to me,

Because they look like the way out,

A path that leads to a better destiny,

A cure to my aches,

A method to overcome my fears,

The aid to my struggle,

The meaning to my tuneless tunes;

If only these words could come to me,

For they are the bread I am hungry for,

The liquor to quench my thirst,

The fulfilment to my cravings;

If only these word could come to me,

For they are the only road to your heart,

My love,

The only ones to clear this confusion and replace it with clear vision;

If only these words could come to me,

Maybe they could turn me into something better;

Not the shy one who can never build up enough courage to stand,

Not the invisible one who can never grasp attention,

Not the child who is taunted by scary images of abuse,

Not the student who is expected to be perfect when she is far from it,

Not the hopeless romantic who has not only fallen for love but for humans too,

Not the sad kid who is forever unwell,

Not the crazy and dramatic one,

Not the one who is killed by the same hope that has to keep her alive,

Not the one who gets the taste of only survival and never life,

Not some picture-perfect little human;

A writer could do;

Not “the great writer”, just a writer,

Because that I could live with,

If only these words could come to me…

.Mpho

Dated: 15/01/2020

Posted in All, Poetry

COAL

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
Identity crisis: A state of nothingness, of worthlessness of disregard;
of “COALNESS”

Black and dirty,

Extracted with no sparkle,

A discovery not worth appraisal,

Carbon creation but no diamond,

I’d rather be you.

To flee this mere existence

Of nothing but persistent numbness,

This constant survival

As a not special creation,

Much more of an abomination.

You who lives among gems but never could be,

Packaged neatly only to burn to ash,

To leave soot as dirt

And end up just like trash,

Existing as you probably is better.

Better than this undefined character

Which has been designed to be I,

This ball of flesh which remains  undescribed,

Too excessive of everything to fit an adjective,

Leaving me a useless puzzle with several missing pieces.

Ripped off your safest haven,

Grabbed by the cold hands of humans

Who care not about what you have but more about what you can create,

Torn into shreds,

After all, your demise brings forth their warmth.

I’d still choose your life

Over this constant force that keeps me breathing.

The same breath keeps on cutting though,

Sign that even the oxygen does not deem me worthy enough of its consumption,

This universe has in all possible ways rejected me.

Been constantly snatched  from darling mother ground

To be lit and forced to birth flames,

To parent the fire that tears you apart,

That tortures and kills you silently,

As they take in the warmth and sip their wines,

While remorselessly listening to your cackles in the background.

I still prefer to starr in your melancholic story,

The suffering is at least something,

Not this emptiness,

This shallow hollowness that makes me up,

This reminder that I mean nothing.

Letting products of your reaction to destroy you,

These flames of your creation,

Burn you, scald you,

It’s a cycle of your lifetime,

This cruel norm whose clutches you’ve succumbed to.

Everytime these scars reflect back into my eyes,

Flashes of painful prison days,

Of a life spent behind jail bars,

A punishment enforced by own mind,

One I had to fully-serve,

I’d keep choosing your life outline.

Having been born into this mediocrity,

I do not blame you for repeatedly allowing yourself to be ensnared into such a trap,

Giving yourself wholly up for the benefit of those you know not of,

Yet after all this, they find you as nothing but a mass of darkness,

Of soot and ashes that’s oh so unworthy.

I wish I’d be deluded as you are ,

Believe I’m beautiful but how could I,

When the very same one who’d worshipped such a trait of mine lied?

Be convinced I’m full of greatness,

But what even in my life could fall under such criteria?

Know the truth as me being good,

But I shall not deceive myself, I shall not.

Existed as never close to even second option,

You are no material for jewelry,

Nothing that shimmers and glistens,

But in a mixture of you and diamonds,

I’d shamelessly go for you.

Or maybe not.

Maybe despite being so desperate to belong,

Though you so much complement me,

I’d rather stop this game we both got into,

Of running back to fire despite the burns.

I’d rather live in my own invisible shell,

Unnoticed even by the ones who used to notice

My identity’d rather be defined by this nothingness

Than to be something but regarded so valueless.

.Mpho

Posted in All

MY DEATH BEFORE DYING

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
No sadder story to tell than the one caused by the one I put my happiness in the hands of.
_noexcuse

These words pour out of me in the same way ounces of blood oozed out of my opening that night, it scares me. These phrases form a rhythm so much identical to the sound of you pounding on me, it terrifies me. These syllables that I ink look too coloured on the white paper, they remind me of the red ugly stains on the bed sheets. Writing on such plainness makes me question if I am leaving permanent marks unto paper in the same manner in which you etched your dirt deep within me.

See, you have tainted even the most beautiful of actions with your dark cold felony.

I can no longer be just a writer without linking it to that dreadful period. I can no longer nurture my talent without hinting how much your ungodly deeds damaged me.

That night plays over and over in my head every moment of every day, repeating the memory as though it is happening again and again.

I never thought I would ever be ready to tell this story, at least not for another dozen years and more. I also never thought I would have to do it over a random blog post, put it out here for whoever to read but the memories get more suffocating with time and it’s just not possible to hold them in anymore.

A therapist’s couch, with the professional staring intently as if right through my soul and writing notes in a book I wish I could peak in as he or she tries to make sense of my grief, was more of a way. I used to think that would be the day I finally take on my healing.

A cozy but messy bedroom on the day my then closest friend would have found me pained and unable to get out of bed from the storm raging inside of me perhaps. I would finally vent my guts out over a packet of sweet chilli-flavoured Doritos, sour gummies and wings as the friend attempted to lift my spirits. The initial comfort of my favourite woolen socks on my feet and a fleece wrapped my body will begin to feel all too warm for me as I break apart over again from the friend’s not-really-helpful attempt to help me. I would crash all over again because I would see, through my window, the first snow flakes of the winter fall and then be reminded more firmly of that day.

Or maybe with a spouse that was on the verge of calling it quits if I didn’t face the demons in me which had been very threatening to our future. I would finally agree to sit down and talk about everything with him, allow him to help me and to help us.

You see I had made up all these scenarios in order to attempt pushing away the weight of having to let this out? All these scenarios which would first have to let this dark dark past damage important parts of my future. All these scenarios born from my mind but scare even I.

Now that I have lost the creativity to come up with more ways to push away laying the wretchedness of my heart out, the flashbacks are taunting me and daring me to fall off the edge but no, not when there’s a single though extremely thin rope I could hold on to for just a little while longer.

You were my superhuman before that day and for quite a while before the depth of your actions finally sank in. Now I realise you only had the superpowers to delusion me into thinking highly of you so that you could ease your way into the damaging of my entire being.

I thought it was the right thing to do and how terrible a child I would be if I did not comply. You fed me all those blatant lies; brainwashed me to a scary extent and I had no choice but to believe you, after all, it was your genes I carried.

This new game you were to teach me was creepy as Mama had warned me soon as I began kindergarten to not let anyone, even the boys who were my classmates, to play it with me. It was you though, you would never have caused me any harm right? So I let you convince me that it was not bad as Mama had put it and promised you never to tell her about your attempt to get me playing it; I still have not broken my promise.

So we played it, that game which you claimed all the princesses played with their fathers. We played it and it was the first game you taught me that I ever not liked, it brought me so much pain. I felt sicker to my deepest core when I saw how much I bled and how ill and energyless I felt.

I remember my four-year old self lying limply on my bed where you had taken me to rest the fatigue off as you went to get rid of the messed bedding. I watched the first snowflakes that year and could not go out to enjoy the goodness of the winter, I never did ever again.

I let you lie to Mama when she got back about how I might be coming up with a terrible flu and how you decided to get rid of the old ugly sheets. I knew deep down that something was off but I never dared to tell, not when you had threatened to punish me duly for my betrayal if I ever did.

It was only a few weeks later when my classmate Lerato’s uncle got arrested by the police after playing that game with her too did I realise how horrible you had been to me. You were a bad guy not the gentle king you pretended you were.

I was fortunate to never have to face you again after the realisation. Yes, I should not find contentment in my mother’s major heartbreak but the cracks in your marriage were a blessing for me. After all the avoidance of our family you had done after playing your horrible game with me; probably trying to hide from your guilt and the little girl you shattered, she was done with you. I think if Mama had known about what you did to me, she would divorce you over and over again every season.

Now I have harbored the pain for twelve more years alone.

Yes, twelve years later and I am not over it but I have at least mastered the art of calming my own nightmares each time when I am all alone in the rented room I have lived in all my high school years.

You ruined me. Very badly.

I cannot face men without squirming in fear and I have misjudged the actions of all males in my life.

I cannot take in any loud sound without transforming it into the sound of my heart-breaking screams as you painfully tore through me that day.

Any illness I suffer from reminds of how extremely ill and weak I was for the days following that ordeal, much more psychologically than physiologically.

Now, I have carried all this melancholy for all these years and it feels as though it doubles each year. It gets worse when I hear of yet another person experiencing such because I feel the experience come to live for me again.

You killed me then and I have been dying all days of my existence.

Maybe someday I shall be able to lay my feelings out perfectly clearly but right now, I choke on my words at each attempt. So I leave just this for you to read about your cruel actions and for everyone else. They may or may not believe me but you and I both know that it is true.

I trusted you with my life only to trust you with nothing at all in such a short period. What you did to me can never be undone and I do not think I am able to ever forgive you or at least I am not ready and shall not be for a very long time.

Goodbye now. I still do have a storm inside me to try fighting once again and heaven knows I yearn to win this battle.

.Mpho

Posted in All

False Beauty

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
Beauty is not a standard that can be determined for you by anyone else.

I met a man in that rowdy bar downtown.

I met a man and he told me that I was beautiful.

I thought it was absurd, that he was mocking me because how would anyone in his right senses find me beautiful in the state I was in. Old bartender uniform that was a size bigger, Bantu knots on my head and everything displeasing on my face.

Hah! Beauty? Me?

Beautiful was something you said about white girls in magazines and a few black ones with softer features than I.

I laughed in his face, angrily. How dare he criticize me like that?

The man insisted. I was beautiful.

He came to the bar every evening to keep telling me I was beautiful and to get to know me better.

That was how I thought I fell in love. It was with a man who worshipped the beauty of my rough manly appearance and found my deep voice melodious.

He was too adventurous where I was concerned and I allowed him to explore.

Explore he did; every inch of me. I opened up for him even where I was uncomfortable doing because I needed him. I needed him to make feel beautiful and womanly, to make me feel like a beautiful woman.

He praised my beauty more when we interacted sexually and I felt inclined to serve more of where my beauty lied most.

He taught me that my beauty lied more in my sexual abilities and that was okay because I believed him.

It became like that. I communicated with him in that manner and he told me that I was beautiful, easing my insecurities.

Little did I realize that he was building more on my self-consciousness. How could I be beautiful in the way he explained if I did not feel as excellent in his specified area as I thought should be, or even special? Once that question came, more others came and I stopped believing his praises of my beauty.

By the time I stopped being a slave to his masochistic desires, I left more messed-up than I was when I came in.

He left me angry, pained and used.

I still do not feel that I am beautiful.

.Mpho

Posted in Poetry

Nights like this

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
Calm nights disturb my own calmness.

On nights like this;

I toss and I turn,

I sweat and I shiver,

I let out screams I held back in yesterday night and before.

I scream and shake walls

Like a natural disaster with no forewarning.

On nights like this, there’s an earthquake shaking things up in my room.

On nights like this;

I don’t just cry, I howl

So loud, it threatens a wolf pack somewhere up North,

For not even their Alpha howls the way I do.

On nights like this, my melancholy cuts way too deep to be ignored.

On nights like this;

I relive the trauma and it all feels like a new event over again,

I’ll call it retraumatization.

On nights like this, I open up a new chapter of anguish without closing the old similar one.

On nights like this,

I am too tired to fight the demons,

Too tired to ‘visit my happy place’…a place which does exist but in my imagination.

On nights like this, I let the pain win because there’s really no point to keep fight a losing battle.

On nights like this;

I am the reciprocation of the monsters in my head,

Wild and angry.

On nights like this, my soul is dark and my heart heavy.

On nights like this,

My wretchedness is too clear to see

Even in the dark.

.Mpho

Posted in All, Poetry

Golden Hour

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
Calm. Beautiful. Golden.

It’s a normal day

After work hours

The city is starting to get noisier

The chatter of streets quite too deafening

I throw on my grey sweater

And get out of the house

Begin my walk away from civilisation

The children are chasing each other

Shrieking loudly

A tired driver is yelling at one of the infants

They really should stay away from the roads

I keep walking…

I pass by the old spaza in my hood

The guys are gathering there in their usual huge glitch

Trying to take in some herbs secretly

They holler at me as I pass

I just shake my head, laugh

Pulls out a peace and passes

Making a turn into another street

Things are busier here

Workers use this route on their way home

The firm employees are complaining about not getting their wages for the second month

It’s heartbreaking

They don’t feel my empathy though because

One of them pushes me off the sidewalk

Making a comment about me being “one of the rich city kids who act as though they own the roads”

That’s okay though

I just pass them with my head held down

Then I make the final turn

My favourite turn

I smile to myself as I take on the dirt road

Up the hill I go

Putting everything behind me

The little argument with my mother

The mess I always have on my back

All behind

I climb up as just some girl

On this rocky creation,

I’m just another normal piece of nature

The top is beautiful

I navigate through the overgrown path to my usual spot

My hood is off

I feel light

Free

I sit on the usual rock

Listen to the birds chirping

The summer breeze whizzing

The soft wash of the lake below

The water looks almost still

If you look more intently though

There are small ripples of waves causing motion

I keep looking up towards sky

West side

It’s not fully there yet

But it’s coming, soon

So I keep waiting

Till it finally happens

The moment feels ever so surreal

I whip my head to the sky again

And this time,

The rays come down washing on my face

Igniting warmth on my skin

The colour reflecting off me

And suddenly everything quitens

Or maybe it’s just me

But the birds stop chirping

The breeze stops whizzing

The water and the plants stop moving

The sounds in the distance no longer heard

The planet stills

Clouds wrap around the sun

A scarily beautiful pattern

All is calm

Golden.

.Mpho

Posted in All

An Untitled Post With A Title: A Beautiful Rant

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
Writing is the language I understood at birth, during the course of life and that which I shall still comprehend even in death.

Hey!

I have not returned here for some little while but today, I have.

Today, my pen bleeds uncontrollably and there is no better place to have the blood be shed than the paper whose painful longing has been the cause of that deep gash.

Today my hand has been shaking non-stop, a withdrawal symptom for a drug I had been so intent on taking a break from. Oh but I have failed! I have failed to stay away. Today, yet again, I am back getting high off this intoxication because this syllables are an addiction I can never seem to win quitting.

Today my brain refused to be my ally, not when I had been depriving it off its usual dosage of chemicals. Today, my mind drove me into getting high for it to stop fighting.

Today my heart beat louder and faster than usual. Thumping violently, producing rhythms that shook my whole body. My poor heart needed a release, something to keep it holding on for me a little bit longer; and no, I could not bring myself to ignore that loud thrumming against my ribs which had me thinking for a while that my one precious organ would fall out of my chest.

Today all my vessels were unbearably tense. My blood was still, refusing to flow as though there was a stronger force that kept it intact despite the hard pumps created inside my ribs.

Today, there was too much havoc in my entire body for me to know I had to do something. I had to get up and free my pen from the solitude that had governed it. I had to do what I knew set my spirits at tranquility; that which had the power to end all forms of chaos my raging soul could come up with.

Today, I lay myself out in the open for all of the universe’s creation to see. I dug a hole into one of my walls and allowed myself to escape this planet of my own.

Today these words pour out of me like rain in the summer. The letters rush out of every pore of my body as though they had been compressed under immense pressure, I do not blame them.

Today, I have allowed my pen to take over. I have allowed its ink to expose me, to lay out my nakedness. Its nib has my full permission to uncover all parts of me; shallow or deep, raw or mild. Today, I shall not put the lid back on this pen again; nor shall I even then when the storm has calmed down.

Today, I shall yet again bask in the glory of what I really am. I shall be a writer, unapologetically. Today and all other days to follow, all my bitterness and sweetness will be released from all tissues I had hid them in.

Today, I shall yet again be an artist of syllables.

.Mpho