My thoughts run wild.

My mind is restless.

My body is tired.

No sleep in close proximity.

Music seems to be the only aphrodisiac.

Chest aching, palms itching, face moist, eyes wet, cheeks flushed.

What is this?


There are many questions,

Many thoughts that need thesaurus level articulation for sentences to be constructed appropriately.

Ink flowing through my veins, but my pages remain blank.

A sea of blank pages on the floor.

Pages filling the floor like a combusting cloud.

Condensation in full effect.

It drizzles slightly, tears falling off my face.

This light drizzle is familiar.

Cold constructs caressing and slowly finding their way off this moderately warm face.

What is this?


Consumed in a dark room, enclosed with too many unknowns.

A familiar place.

A womb.

An incubator.

Where the body and mind grow.

Where suicide is telepathy to pasteurized milk and green estuaries.


A prevalent thought that fills a dark mind.

Thoughts of self-inflicted pain, not the visible scarring of the skin.

Rather self-inflicted emotional pain.

The kind of pain no one knows exists.

Pain no one gets to see.

Killing them with a smile.

Your body slowly deteriorating inside.

A volatile sickness, that doesn’t make sense.

I am not pain.

I am not darkness.

But the darkness loves me.

I thrive in it.

What is this?


There is light.

Not the tunnel vision.

There is being.

The sun shines so bright teasing me with its glimpses.

Blue skies filled with kites and endless child-like laughs.

Grass so lush that you could fall asleep on it.

Flowers blossoming, colouring the sky, fragrance the air.

Birds singing ever so lovely.

The wind slowly whispering carelessly in your ear.

There is warmth.

It is morning.


Signed: Black Metaphor (Lesego Pasha)


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