When it hurts, it heals

there is something beautiful about pain
something to be loved and embraced

sometimes it can be the beginning:
the beginning of a dream
the beginning of self discovery
the definition of a new path

it offers the opportunity for a new foundation
if it is harnessed efficiently;
new focus
new desire
introspection
self-examination

sometimes I shield my self from pain
by living a delusion
telling myself whatever happened is not real
But it is the wrong approach I think
bleed and bleed

it hurts to bleed
but when it hurts, it heals

Epiphany of a healed heart

Staring into a black hole:

Endless and deep;

Dense and scary duskiness;

Pain, shame, betrayal, hate!

Exciting dreams metamorphosing into grotesque despair;

Benign mentors transforming into malignant tormentors.

Mocked by miserable comforters.

Challenged by the inept failures of the past;

Tortured by the nefarious adversities of the moment;

Threatened by the sure hopelessness of the future;

Encapsulated by desires, anxious desires:

Putrefying soul!

In search of light:

There is a will, there is a way

Spurred by crooked desires

False assurances by sincere helpers

Emboldened by altruistic but desperate friends

Whisperings, backstabbing, denial, rejection

Enduring the loneliness of failure

Orphaned by the reality of unfulfilled expectations

Moving from super-stardom to villainousness

Transiting from soaring egoism into self-doubt

Decaying critical faculty

Clouded mind!

There must be a way

Where there’s a will; there’s a way

Look into the mind

Reason, introspection, roadmap, blueprint

Obey the call of duty

Fan the sparkle into a conflagration

Dredge the stream into an ocean

Recover the dynamism of a free mind

It is a bend; it’s not an end

Healed heart!

….to be continued

relapsing Fever

sprouting like the bud of a tender flower

with the petals unfolding with the brightness of the sun

nutured meticulously by the freshness of the morning dew

it grows stronger and stronger like the oak in the americas

striking like a teriffic lighting

with its spark flashing from coast to coast;

spreading like a wide fire in the harmattan

defiling the most shrewed fireman's expertise

progressing into a raging conflagration

pounding my heart like an obstinate palpitation

such an amalgam of blow and hope it is

but i savor the pleasure of such a microcosmic utopia

as my love grows by the day

splintered guts: reflections of a bemused philosopher

stalked by some paranoia

vehemently running from his shadow

why would a character like me not?

why would I want to be vulnerable?

I remember the words of brother West

an astute, shrewed philosopher

prophetic and Socratic in the real sense of the word:

"he who has not cried has not loved; he who has not loved has not lived".

love defines, unwraps our humanity

-maybe, maybe not-

I surmise our vulnerability too

I am not just Negro

I am born and bred in mother Africa

how unmanly is it to cry!

if the sayings of West are true

in tandem, its unmanly to love then

maybe the context is cultural

but i tot the language of love is universal

could we question the expression of the same?

.....to be continued