The ashes of the earth swayed at their ankles like flames of an intense fire. The unforgettable outcry imbued their impulses, as beads of sweat trample upon the duo's drums under the Johannesburg moon. Lights, camera, action were all around, yet we where mesmerised by these natives of minimal. The lost children of the world cracked the surface of my hardend heart, causing my soul to cry as if I had been punished like a child, my spirit to rebel from what I considered right with men. I shed a mask that day. Owning my shame of the shallow motives I conjured up as needs in my life, pampering the gossip blogs with juicy info from the papparizzi I summonded to gloat in the ambiance of their raving opinions on my style that I sacrifced my self-esteem for. "No. They just want our money." You boast of how they were looking for money and attention, but you cast your gaze into a bleak mirror and hadn't noticed it yet nor the fact that there were no gimicks or collection plate to gather up funds, hustling sympathy with a face of destress, just tattered clothes with no brand named price tag and joy with a singular purpose; to spread more joy as they entertained. Beating, beating, beating, like the sounds of a mundane life of a broken spirit, revloving those same tactics, used on them, to torture the next. These people were different, they had something. They obtained what we spoke highly of with a brute fist at social gatherings but had to hold others down to wisk our noses in the air to just imagine the smell of it becuase we lacked the sense of what it meant to be our whole lives; freedom. I fell slaved to the rhythm, possessed by the poundings of my heart to let go and be. I broke my chains that night, and fell in love with me again.
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Rushing Wisdom
RandomHonest Hour... when the minutes were breaking down to the final seconds to drop my novel, I had foled under the pressure of critcs falling back from my work so, instead I decided to make a part two of Archieved stories and poems I've written form 20...
