Confession to my typewriter #5


I think I am slowly beginning to understand this feeling, this anxiety from within. It feels as if my heart is itching, an itch that cannot be relieved or cured until I sit down in front of you. 

You are drawn to me, and I to you, but what is it exactly that you want from me? Do you expect great things of me? Sitting before you is the only way to cure the itch before I go mad and can no longer take it, to fight the urge of staying away


Emotional currency


It is said
that actions speak louder
than words
and at times
words speak louder than actions.
What if the words “I love you”
or “I miss you” were erased,
disappearing like sand grains
carried into the wind
never to be caught again.
It is said that talk
is cheap,
but words
still have
emotional currency
that can’t be traded
on stock markets



Everything has become so quick,
so easy,
done by the single push
of a button.
Which makes me question
what we actually do for ourselves
on this machine riddled earth
besides breathe,
shit, piss
and die
and make good fertilizer
where good trees will grow
on bad souls.
Everything has become instant
in our war against time –
instant coffee,
instant death,
brought about by a single push
of a button

Diminishing colour and soul


They try to kill my soul,
but sometimes I’ve got to be hard,
like diamonds dug up
in Sierra Leone.
Dissociative identity disorder sufferers,
not sure which side
of the colour spectrum
we belong to.
Offspring between white and black,
too much melanin in my skin
to be the master race,
but dark enough to carry
slave genes

The fight against time


It’s Saturday again, the living are celebrating the lives of the dead

“Can I have this one?” I ask

“Nah, that holes warm for a cold one” said the undertaker

Strange how the clocks keep moving and we keep dying. We offer a minute of silence for souls of the departed, yet the clocks keep ticking disrespectfully. We try to own it, govern it by planning our schedules, assuming that we are it’s masters. Time laughs, knowing that it never belonged to us. Looking back on life, time was a premature ejaculation that came too fast

You don’t see the stars anymore


You don’t see the stars in the city anymore, covered by the man made invisible industrial fog in the sky. When you do see one, you have to squint to get a good look at it, 20/20 vision or not. Go out of the city, somewhere remote and the stars will fill the skies like a rash. Eventually they die too, stars, supernovas, Carrie Fisher and George Michael

It’s a bit sad


It’s a bit sad that wars are fought over religion and politics, leaving children orphaned.

It’s a bit sad that child soldiers know guns and death before love and innocence.

It’s a bit sad that my colour and heritage offend you.

It’s a bit sad that a life is snuffed out before it gets the chance to grow.

It’s a bit sad that the corrupt get richer.

And it’s a bit sad when a beggar goes down on his knees