Dark times begat the dark arts.
What were the slaves to do but desperately turn
To the demons infliction conjured by pervading
Actions and crimes of the Supremacists burn?
I am a biological heir of atrocities spread
By the ‘Colonial White’ and the slave trade –
Empires built upon stolen bodies broken, as
Belief, freedom and hope of millions were unmade.
I can still hear the screams sometimes,
Cries of terror, of pain, omitted from the books;
The debilitating horrors of their legions depravity.
I can still see the hopeless sorrow and vacant looks.
A tentative creative that hopes to hail as a published poet in the days to come. South African from the uterus to our current date. Durban will always be my first hat rack upon which I rest my heart
A lower-middle class working class hero, working the salt mine, suckling the teat of the Industrial Machine.
Who we are is in constant flux, but she likes to consider herself lamentably human.
Seeing the woeful destruction of her home on this glorious earth has driven this particular poet to attempt to bridge the gap, and connect the minds of others to our shaking grounds of reality.