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They invited me to the place

I feared the most.

like a true street wise analyst,

I never let my feared dominate me.

On my way in, they told me

I am in hell, but I saw heaven.

what I saw, feared me

people standing in the corner

influcenced by globalization,

poisining thier temple,

losing thier holiness,

African mother exhausted

Of living in this European lifestyle

where poverty is taking a part,

youth with no identity of thier own,

losing thier african roots,

in that I saw myself, mother tongue

I have lost, at least they have something to prove

thier Africanism, what about me?

my intellegence they proved wrong,

but they made me wise.

In this place i saw the greatest gift of all, love,

love in each other, I found love!

they told me welcome, for once i felt like,

I belong somewhere, but not in my mind,

and i call this place home.

Don't let us die

Don’t let us die
Before poverty, drugs, gangstarism,
Becomes a history in our community,
That no longer exists and will never happen again.

Don’t us die,
Before the sunrise in the morning,
And wipe the sadness on our faces,
And bring back happiness,
And our dreams become a reality so bright
That the world will have to wear glasses to look at.

Don’t let us die,
Or be persecuted to death,
Before a fair trial is given to us,
And because we are facing the biggest judge of all,
Which is society.

Don’t let us die,
Before choice becomes an option that we all have,
And for us a passport for life,
To be able to succeed in life,
Or in this world,
Where we feel like we have been forgotten,
And behind the world we live.
When we have in our mind,
That choice is an illusion created
By those who have power to motivate those who don’t,
But how can I believe in choice?
when you are not ready to stretch your hands,
And help us find our feet.

Will you let us die?
Before our dreams become a reality,
Before the sunshine so bright,
Before choice becomes a part of all of us,

Will you let us die?
It’s in your hands,
But please! But please! But please!!!!
Don’t us die.

I am a president

I am a president

On my own dictatorship
In my own philosophic mind,
In my spirit of been a leader,
I am a president.

In front of the public,
Government laws,
Inside of an African parliament,
I am a president.

Not even needing a political party,
Not even needing a vote,
But in my own writing, dictatorship
And in my philosophic mind,
I am a president.

Touch of love

Touch of love

Touch me deeply, inside
And take my solidarity away.

I have felt your lips against mine,
Becoming one in love.

Touch me deeply, inside
And make me sweat.

Touch me deeply, inside
From the bottom to the top
And set free one of my deepest sexual fantasy.

Turn me on, seduce me
Explore me, navigate all over me.

Touch me, touch me deeply, inside
And penetrate into a cave full of desire.

Unleash me by touching me,
And let me experience touches
On the outside that feel in the inside a tremendous
Releases and experience of touches that describe
Love.

In my deepset dream

In my deepest dream

I was born in the darkest night of all,
Before the sunrise, and I wonder
Will I die before the sunset?

In my deepest dream,
I am still who I am,
I wipe my own tears, tears of blood,
Because I am too damn sensitive.

In my deepest dream,
In love, I do, I do not,
I refuse to believe, it distract me,
It becomes a weakness, and I feared
That one day it will hit me in the back without me knowing.

In my deepest dream,
There is only one African dream,
That we all still have to realize,
To live as colour blind,
And been able to love one another as one people.

In my deepest dream,
Without God, life makes no sense,
Without eternity what would be the purpose of life or death to be?

In my deepest dream,
I am still nobody but a poet, a philosopher, an observer, a listener
And an analyst, but I never say anything.

Great heroes

Great heroes

can you hear the sound
of the great heroes of hour freedom.

Can you hear the great sound
of peace maker that opened the door of our future.

my heart bleeds, my poetic soul
seen as it have been stolen away from me.

when I hear, I see that this generation,
my genaration is not appreciating, saluting
the heroes that shed thier blood in the great street of sowet.

they raised thier voices of peace saying,
we want to be told in a language that, we know best,
in a language that makes us feel like we belong somwhere,
ins a languages that makes my Africanism as pure as an African coffee,
and black the way my mother likes.

Guns went ballistic like thunder in a raining day,
to stop thier great songs of freedom, but they couldn't
stop them from opening the door of our future.

as a youth and the future let all salute,
the great heroes of june 16 for our freedom

Realistic/splited mind

Realistic/bleeding mind

African dreamer is my name,
splited mind is my way of thinking,
my mind is corrupted my the negative influence
in my community.

Words coming from my mouth are like bullet penetrating
through a bulletprof jacket.

if you take a monent, and listen to what i have to say,
you will find out that i am clinically depress.

i blame no one individually,
but you as whole,
my sociaty is sinking in the wonders ot the world.

Here i am still standind, but not strong enough because my rights as
human being, as a world citizen are been violeted.

take me back to those days,
when i was a child and innocent,
now i come to realise,
that the world arround us is not perfect,
and Human rights are such an issue.

A moment

A moment

All i wanted from her
was a moment to be heard.

a moment to express
my true charm.

a moment to let her
know that a maybe Mrs right.

she looked at me,
the look on her face was as if
she knew my history and afraid of been
apart of it she was.

and again all i needed
was a moment for my
magic to work.

a moment to let her know
that is not about who am i
but who will i be if you give me a chance to
fail in love.

a moment, a moment
a moment, that's all i have asked,
but eventually that moment was never given to me

poetry, the ghetto art

poetry , the ghetto art.

born with a descriptive mind,
poetry my refuge from depression,
my writing creativity and the sound
of my voice that make poetry slam,
rules the ghetto street corner.

poetry an art,
to unlock, set my mind free
from a psychological prison that life is.

poetry is an art,
that vandalises my mind
with hope of survival,
and beliefs of choice.

poetry, the getto art,
through poetry i am the ghetto professor,
the ghetto philosopher,

poetry the ghetto art,
mama said through pain and suffering
the ability to write have been a calling, a blessing
from the unseen, unheard
but felt.

poetry, the ghetto art,
through poetry i was born
not follow but to lead,
those who let themselves be led by me

poetry, the ghetto art.