Hopeless

Poetry is the language of lovers, the language of the hopeless, rather infatuated individuals who crave one another’s affections.

 

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Written impulsively, I’ll let you guess what emotion I was feeling at this certain point in time.

Sew the earth with our dead…

A moment of disgust; life being the mundane and frivolous task of maintaining appearances and seeming to be pleased with your daily experiences. Seeming, signifying the annoyance and rhyming profanities received from an ignorant, harmless and somewhat distracted individual. Life being the search for a sorry situation, one in which we are appreciated and tended to like the palpitating vein, soothed by the flowing blood. Anger surges, a burst of energy, a fire lit by a structure filled with echoing sadness. Happiness cool acting as a lie, a soft blanket woven with the finest of Providences fabrications and illusions; cast over the eyes of the wondering, who hope to discover the treasures of its warmth.We are not fixed, nor are we inextricably linked to this soulless forsaken land, rather, we only exist by the means of our imagination and strong sense of belief in the unseen and somewhat, usually, spiritual understanding of the universe.

Humans are fools, let our time come.

Announcing the winners of the Fan Art Contest

Mark Lawrence is a genius, I truly love his work.

that thorn guy

Liar's key UK coverI’d like to say a big thank you to everyone who took the time and submitted an entry (or more) to this competition. For all of us, might we be other readers, publishers or the author himself, it gives a sense of great excitement and joy to see our favourite characters come to life through the vivid imagination and devoted work of other artists.

Beside the many great pieces I was also often moved by the emails accompanying the works, telling us about how the contest provided inspiration to draw or paint again after a long time, how much enjoyment the work caused to the artists themselves, and of course about how much love they felt toward Mark’s books, something that was also clearly reflected in their creations.

During the competition I also realised that unlike the previous ones I hosted on this site, this one gave an equal opportunity…

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Sunny days

The Sun’s smiling rays somewhat pierce my eyes as I walk along the familiar road that leads me home. My head softly moving to the harmony of my humming voice as I wishfully passed the ever familiar spots; the tall lamp post, the towering buildings and that small junction.

Yes, that’s it, the junction.

The place where the dancing auburn leaves would twirl effortlessly beneath the sky, mocking the clouds and their grey severity. The place where the trees used to bow their heads in secrecy and whisper fervently to one another, oblivious to the busy mortals rushing to and fro, frantically watching life leave them in dust.

Oblivious presently still, of the girl who pauses and glances at them, her eyes reflecting the memory of a boy. A boy with laughing lips and chestnut eyes, a boy with dark hair and severe lies, a boy with tear stained cheeks and lovingly swapped ties. He would patiently stand and wait on these long, sunny days, watching for her small figure to walk up to him.

And his smile would appear, radiant, somewhat piercing her eyes.

Closing the book

Beautiful, this is just beautiful

chanyado

You get married and you think this is the man you will spend the rest of your life with.

Then life happens.

You separate, and for the next three years you don’t see him. You don’t hear his voice. The soft lilt in his Rs. You don’t see him ruffled up in the morning before he puts on his armour to face the world. You don’t smell him in the corridor before you leave the house. You don’t see his name pop up on your phone. You don’t know what song he belts out as he drives with the window down and Bluetooth earpiece on. You don’t know what person he thinks is a complete muppet. You don’t hear the word muppet anymore. You never have to put the toilet seat down.

You begin to wonder if you dreamed the whole thing up.

The waves now wash over you once every…

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Selma, mighty Selma (2014)

Brilliant

Tananarive Due Writes

“People are trapped in history, and history is trapped in them.”  –James Baldwin

la_ca_1021_selma David Oyelowo as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. in Selma.

I was raised by two civil rights activists – attorney John Due and the late Patricia Stephens Due—so stories of Martin Luther King, Jr. were common in my house. My mother first met Dr. King at a CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) workshop in Miami in 1959. My aunt, Priscilla Stephens Kruize, who attended with her, is an activist. Our godparents were activists, black and white.

Even without an official holiday, my sisters and I got to skip school every January 15 for annual birthday celebrations that brought neighbors, activists and politicians to our home to reflect on Dr. King and the legacy of The Movement. We held hands, listened to Dr. King’s speeches, and sang “We Shall Overcome.” As an adult, I co-authored a civil rights…

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