Three Stories. Three Poems. Three Pictures.

Short and sweet. 

(Hey, I'm on Hello Poetry now too. It's like Facebook but just for poetry..so check me out!  

 http://hellopoetry.com/tawandamulalu/

Also check out my friend Mzwandile's Hello Poetry profile. Really dark and deep literature: http://hellopoetry.com/mzwandile-poncana/ )

Anyhow, here we go; short and sweet.

***

I. 

A STUDENT'S THOUGHTS, LATE AT NIGHT.


Tired.

I had been able to close my eyes for a bit and even went as far as letting the blanket of black envelop me. Strangely, it had held me like no one didn't. In short, I was alone. But this time, content with being so: I could finally enjoy the voice inside my head.

And then tomorrow, once a concept that didn't exist, existed once again. Then my chest began to hurt. Exam sadness was setting in. It was thus the time to write insincere essays and meaningless equations. All for a certificate that will say I am qualified for something. For what, I do not know. All I know that I was once able to smile...not too long ago.

I said goodbye to my blanket of black and said hello to my gentle heart attack. And afterwards I logged onto more emptiness on a screen: dreams and seens. I didn't, I don't, understand anything yet. All I know is that I am suddenly not a child anymore.

LIGHTBULB.

Lightbulb; the moths flutter 

and beat themselves to death against an idea.

A thought, vivid like glass, bright like tungsten-

glows.

I am reaching out to mind again,

my wings burned and burdened...Wait.

I have lost track of my metaphors again...

But then again, like the moths,

I have lost track of many things-

except for the unknown light in front of me.

II.

EDUCATION.

“Dear [insert name of relevant exam board here],

I’m writing to tell you that being a student is not my life.  My mind has nothing to do with you. Your grades do not define me. So you’ll have to excuse me while I go read a book that I want to read and write an essay that I want to write.”

The smiling English teacher reads the essay to the class. Its author, an exceptional student, has received full marks for it.

This student will win a competitive scholarship…and will go to a prestigious university.

She will study politics. 

MONOLOGUE.

Stage lights go on and off,

every morning and every night.

Somewhere in some poet's bedroom window,

Somewhere in some lonely theater hall; she

        rises

and begins to speak her heart, her soul. The poet's

pen is the stage light which has glowed,written; she 

                  sets

having long stopped caring about anything else

as she was instructed to do so.

The applause is sad and silent, beautiful and brilliant.

And so is the dark... so is the dark.

III.

DREAMERS.

They essentially cheated on each other, with each other.

Day after day and night after night: Him and Her flirted in their bed sheets while whispering secrets. Each kiss acknowledged the existence of whomever they thought they were with; their mouths rarely parted in order to hide their uncertainties.

Their sad truth was revealed in a moment of affection. She said, ‘I love how you’re never scared of anything’ and he said, in post-coital reciprocity, ‘I love how you always put others first.’

Both knew that they were neither fearless nor self-sacrificing. Both knew that they were only dreamers.

THE ADOLESCENT POET.

As you go about your business,

      at the back of the school rugby field,

you search her body with your hands:

      you are looking for metaphors.

You instead find other, much nicer things.

***

Let me take some space to monologue a bit:

I've stopped writing specifically about my life on this blog (...until now?), and the blog has mostly become a space to share my attempts at literature ('short and sweet' because I'm lazy) with people. I don't know what to say about this. On one hand it sort of makes me happy because I guess it means I'm less solipsistic and self-concerned and self-obsessed now and that's always a good thing. On on the other hand, it is always painful to realize that you're not as special or important as you would've liked to be. 

I've always, implicitly, thought that about myself. Not in a grand 'I'm smarter than all of you' way...but in the sense that before I died I was hoping to have a Wikipedia article about me up. 

Isn't that such a pathetic life ambition? My greatest goal is to want a Wikipedia article about me? All with a cool-looking black and white picture of me looking intensely into the distance? What distance? What would I be looking at? Why do I even want to be doing that? Why black and white?

Nevermind that. But good news is that I've started reading again... after a series of addictions that include Cracked.com and Youtube my attention span has been almost completely destroyed. This is of course, as usual, along with my heart. So I'm using reading to run away into a place that only I can be, and also to see if I can try and surviving in reality by myself. I don't want to feel the need to be with other people but I do. I really don't know what to do about that... 

Loneliness sucks. But also quite suckish is the frightening realization of the continuity of life. It's easy to gain a sense of futility in one's romantic future once you're under the assumption the every girl (or boy) one meets is merely a link in a possibly never-ending chain of 'adventures.' So- why bother if it ends and starts the same?

Because it feels good.

Though at the same time we meet certain links that we believe are truly special, that we want to have forever. But at the same time we know that this isn't true because they'll be leaving to another continent at the end of the month.

Whoops.

You see how long I haven't written about my personal life for? That sounds like the plot of a stupid teenage love story movie type of thing and not my reality. Does it matter either way? Yes it does, not it doesn't. 

I'm over a lot of it. And by 'it,' I mean everything and anything. Maybe that's why I'm reading again. I don't know. I don't know if I want to be here or somewhere else. Thus, the difficult choice of what to read today presents itself...fiction or non-fiction? To be a scientist or to be a poet? Stuff like that.

Though I'm assuming I'll be okay. I'm always okay.

Only problem is I've always wanted to be more than 'just okay.'

I've always wanted...more.

This attempt at profundity is the original cover image for this blog. It's from when I was still fourteen... I'm seventeen now.

P.S The official release date for 'First Adventures In Adolescent Heartbreak' is January 14, 2015. Do check it out. Furthermore, they'll be a special blog post called 'Poems for a Somebody' at the end of the month. Again, do check it out. 

Night Sky.

"Evening."

Well, for the sake of the title of this post, let's pretend it is. Let's pretend it's dark out, and the sky is black except for the little, sparkly splotches of God's paint in the sky. You know, the stars that imply something greater, something humbling, maybe something even romantic. Let us assume you're thinking of impossibly philosophical notions and stuff- you're an amoeba in the universe; the earth is a grain of sand.

Let's pretend that you're falling asleep and the lights are out. You're in a blanket, it's cold; maybe you're not even in your bedroom. Maybe you're sleeping on the grass tonight because you thought it would be poetic or something. Maybe your headphones are playing Chopin. Maybe you're seeing things: people,equations, drink cans, books, cigarettes, test tubes, chairs, whatever floats your boat. Maybe.

 Maybe you're as stupid, and as touchy-feely as I am. Maybe you're not and you're actually studying for your exams. Neither doesn't matter. The point is, it is night. The stars are profound. Or whatever you want to think of it. Just... pretend, with me, for a moment...

"Evening."

Now, in preparation of the upcoming (self-) release of my first real poetry collection, 'First Adventures In Adolescent Heartbreak,' I've decided to post a few things from one of my notepad files called 'Night Sky.' Pretty much all of the stuff that follows will be included in the collection and contains both old and new work: some as recent as last month (and yesterday); some as old as last year. Hope you like it.

"Have you ever noticed the meaningful nothing that speaks so loudly to you in it's silence?

It's called the night sky."

***

AN INBOX.


I watched our brief memories shatter before my face,
and wondered

About our inherent chaos and implicit shapelessness;
crying now

Before me. I meet grey scars in your heart-broken eyes,
cataracts,

Singing a siren’s song that drags me to drown with you-
I hate you

For bringing me back…my head had just broken through your waters…
I miss breathing…

                                      ...so, so much.

***

THE ADOLESCENT POET.


As you go about your business,
      at the back of the school rugby field,
you search her body with your hands:
      you are looking for metaphors.

You instead find other, much nicer things.

***

ONE WEEK AT SCHOOL.


Its a Monday morning when
I'm still trying to make out with you.
It's about half a year earlier,
and we're both late for class.
But nobody's looking; nobody cares.

It's a Tuesday afternoon when
we're walking with other people.
It's a few months later,
and of no consequence any longer:
I've written everything I've needed to.

On a Wednesday evening your sister is now
asking me online why you cry into your pillow:
what were my intentions, what did I want.
I'm trying my best not to tell her,
that I really wish I knew.

It's a Thursday morning again
when I still tried to make out with you.
I see you walk but we're both sure I can't.
Soon enough, no one would have ever noticed,
that in these spaces we occupied anything at all.

Then it is Friday, late afternoon when
I call you to tell you I love you.
You don't say why you won't say it back-
I am suddenly too scared to ask.

So now I am writing
everything I've needed to.

***

BEDROOM.

I am slowly trudging towards midnight,

mind and heart, faded into

murky mix of tiredness and loneliness;

to coalesce, to coagulate

slowly

-the two of them.

A dead phone, I can't check

if you miss me again.

I am slowly trudging towards midnight,

pen and paper, molded into

clarity of mind and heart,

of tiredness and loneliness;

together but separate

-the two of them.

A dead phone, I can't tell you

that of course I miss you (again).

But I'm thriving yes, even

though the only thing I have 

around me- books, books, books.

Even if I struggle to close my eyes

for fear of my own thoughts

pummeling me- books, books, books.

And this library of ever greater, exaggerated,

dramatic heights,

of me being sad for no good reason:

Why should I care if it's just me?

Why should you care if it's just me?

-the two of them.

I still go on writing,

for lack of anything better to do,

turning to the back page,

just as I scribbled all that math

over my draft of my portrait of you.

Both made so hastily in pen

-the two of them.

And earlier when I desperately, desperately

clutched 

at my dead, dead phone

hoping for some semblance of someone...

maybe you, her, him, me, them, us, who, someone-

I looked at that silly teddy,

a cute little gift I bought you,

and finally breathed in and thought-

Things would be okay, things will be okay.

***

LAST NIGHT.


When I put
this drink can
against my mouth
and the liquid flows past my lips,

I am reminded
of a moment,
of a closeness,
I'm not sure I should still feel

but do.

***

Coming soon (he says again).