Inheritance

i'm told freedom tastes like sweet red wine
i do not drink
rather i intoxicate myself on memories
and hope.
i imagine peace smells like blooming flowers on the first dawn of spring
something my allergies allow no pleasure from
she tells me stories of her youth with furver
as if to lament in days of love
she talks of duty as adoration
as the chains clank in the wake of her footsteps
she speaks of her love as an adventure
her eyes tracing memories
as if her hands ruffling through the pages of holy scriptures
carefully revealing truths and lessons
she speaks of blood as a gift
though all it's ever given were sacrificial piers
duty, she says, is rewarding
as she carries burdens 
never written for her
adventure now defined as anywhere
other than what others label home
though cuffs can be seen shackled to her feet
and her face burdened with a smile
she has bequeathed me many lessons
the art of escapism
my most cherished.

Icarus

life is a game we play
for this soul no longer exists
obscurity is the nameless god
blurry face is the lamented worshiper
my body a temple ruin
running thoughts through the mind
a death trap maze
my tongue governed
its whispered name politicized
my eyes warrants of self murderous thoughts
my hands restless with the blood of my relatives
their sins bathe me crimson - 
invisible
their voices muffled into pangs of self-righteous beliefs
the tree of family
with its rope branch hugging my neck 
my eyes sparkle with faded dreams
overshadowing leaves stretching over my very being
unable to become my own icarus
my wings have long since melted
within the scalding flames of love.

shackled dreams

You say if you could fly,

you’d never walk on earth.

For you only have eyes for that faded,

blue sky.

You know if you can just break free,

you’ll find what you seek.

So keep trying to release yourself,

to that faded,

blue sky.

a dreamers lament

The Afroist

for someone with their head constantly in the clouds

reality

can sometimes feel

like a thunderous

storm

waking you out of peaceful reverie

stealing the wonders

 of the ethereal

esoteric

parts of the world and

yourself

reality is often painful

ceaseless reminder

that to live in this world

is to conform.

but this is not life.

for dreamers

it is existing.

it is torture

for those intoxicated

by the foggy

airiness of the

clouds

Featured Image Bennie Rose

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the obscure hall and its hollow walls

The Afroist

I am wandering around the obscure walls

of the sunken place

searching its oblique halls

and I can’t see past the darkness and the emptiness.

there is only hollowness.

I am alone,

frightened,

unable to fathom my surroundings.

It is as if the hollowness of this place

came to hollow me out.

It reverberates through me

and in currents I am

nothing and everything

– this oscillation is undoing me, irrevocably.

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Grief

Sometimes i grieve for my innocence lost.
My hands covered in the blood of my ancestral hopes.
Like shattered glass                                 my dreams lay etched reflecting the broken sky.
The stench of gunpowder and forgotten mistakes perfume the air.
My eyes swollen and my vision impaired,
like frosted glass i am suspended in time.
the memory of who i am…
hazy.
the vision of who i will be…
blurred.
The pride of my folks,
wained under self loathing and disappointment.
Though hidden behind sunshine,
and hope.
Suspended in time,
my body shivers,
for anxiety is my new neighbour.
My heart grows weary,
and in its chambers where a soul once resided,
now barren of hope.
But my mind of mistakes,
ever so bold.
And my innocence for life,
long since distasteful.
Now only a dark forest grows,
swallowing the very sun which brings life to it.
And thus trekking in the forages,
of forgotten hope
and misplaced pride
along with shattered dreams
and hazy memories,
i grieve for my innocence lost.