Homage to the Lost Ones, 2017, Acrylic Painting on polyester
It is a Wicked Truth, 2017 | Poetry
In this land, there is no peace, though peace knocks at times it is our choice to accept its hand or denounce it in its scaled form.
Shall we bear fruit of fear to the oppressor's tongue? Or should we cower and tremble in a place where they have brought us, as they romanticise the notion of us being in the palm of their hands?
What is really going on?
Whitewashing? This washing? That washing? We are being controlled?
Motherland is not pure anymore and neither is fatherland, nor brother-land, sister-land or Grand-land too, all the lands cry in deep ‘aww’ and pain because they have known nothing but pain.
Some will leave and forget and be forced to recount the land which they were born of, and lay their problems bare, to lords of blue skies or the ones of past days, or to rulers of times now or in the warm embrace of those close to comfort.
We will speak of our woes, pains, agonies, frustrations and anything else that does not excite us towards their aggression. Yes, ‘their aggression’.
The controllers, the colonisers, the organisers of misfortune, the oppressors, who stay in clan-like formation as they say with true direction that what they have done is a vision now accomplished. Breaking our spirits as they once did our bones.
But do they not know we are human?
We are proud, beautiful, smart, not just tools for production, but for an introduction to the betterment of the rest of us.
Or do they just see us as cows? cheap meals tickets to which they can render to highest bidder?.. And say ‘NO STOP!’ I think we have the man or woman who will put bread on my table tonight, and the tables of my brain-washed disciples.
How is it possible that in this day and time we choose to wash out the truth with ignorance, and the ignorance with some preconceived notion of optimism, where in-fact we objectively misplace the attribute of positivity, with denial?
See the sphere for what it truly is. People are dying, fathers and mothers are crying, babes are crying, girls and boys are crying. For mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, uncles, aunts, lovers, neighbours never to return; maybe by luck return physically but spiritually the being
residing within is lost in all the torture.
What was innocent is charred like coal, is buried so indefinitely that hope is lost and the darkness like failed endings is their sight.
Why though?
Did they never have dreams to be more than they are, talked about and abused?
They reside in a pool of chaos by oppressors and then reside in a pool of depression from the internalization of the futile sight that is no hope. In a pool of pity by those who have wept for their return and screamed to the heavens and every other spiritual realm on how to break free from all that surrounds the captured.
It is Wickedness to take away what is not yours
It is Wickedness to take away hope from the eyes and the minds of the young ones
It is Wickedness to separate one from their family
It is Wickedness to invade
It is Wickedness to feel entitled to the manipulation and degradation of others
It is Wickedness to condone maladapted behaviour and see it fit to call yourself a leader
It is Wickedness to not give rescue to those in need
It is Wickedness to plant your seeds in the womb that does not accept, invite and you invade
It is Wickedness to cause the scars that will never heal and apologise only to do it over again
It is Wickedness to see yourself as God and do harm to who you call flock
It is Wickedness to tie us up in rope and bid us off like the animals you see us to be
It is Wickedness to never see us as equals but shit on shoes and so eradicate us like you would a cockroach - RAID
It is Wickedness to see yourself as the messiah only to one day be brought to justice by the lot of us who shall see our God show you no mercy
It is Wickedness to sit back and do nothing and say nothing, and think nothing, and feel nothing, and learn nothing and record nothing, for it could have been you.