He’s bleeding from a wound

which he was told already healed

The droplets of blood

are like traces of his journey

so no one can argue

with how far he’s come.

I can’t see tears

coming down my eyes

so I gotta let the poem cry

He’s breathing from a wound

which he was told already healed.

Devils discovered when they

couldn’t asphyxiate him

Love kept him alive

so all they could do

was hate him

I can’t see tears

coming down my eyes

so I gotta let this poem cry

He’s pleading from the wound

which he was told already healed.

Prayers without hope ascend

only to hit the ceiling

waking up tomorrow with the same uneasy feeling;

Mr Lonesome is still

keeping the same company as one

A skin that’s glistening

suggests that’s someone’s listening

but a dry glance

can’t produce tears

which may be the

the reason why I can’t

seem them coming down my eyes

so I gotta let this poem cry.

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Peculiar "Ph D" Khumalo, born and bred (and buttered) in White City, Soweto, the liveliest township in Africa in 1987. Attended Boarding School at Bophelo Impilo and Matriculated in 2007. While his erudite endeavours do not venture beyond Matric, he had long been told he had a way with words, a hype he still has a hard time believing. "Of all the pleasures of life, I relishes nothing more than a conversation over coffee" ☕