Poetry – The Soul 

​Too much pressure exerted on this soul

To a diamond it could turn

Bad emotions ignited upon it but somehow

It don’t burn

Starring out the window, through

The pain is how it learns

The dismal distortion of reality disempowers

It to discern

The harsh reality summons to this soul

Depression

Which is as hard as a born-sinner trying to

Change to be better after a confession

The evil is in vain, felt in the blood when

Active leaves an indelible transgression.
Myself is the king of my soul without any

Change

Dark cloud or grey cloud I will always

Reign

Having a smile even on the phase it moves

Through, despite all the

Pain

This soul might be lion-hearted but it has

No pride

It has made so many mistakes it shows it

That it has tried

Like an ocean let it flow amongst its

Peers with a low tide

Expressing these words, there is nothing

To hide

Its heart was broken like an object that man

Divides

Adding more pain with reality

Multiplied

Subtracting all this pain, it encounters

The light

Because the reciprocation of darkness

Brings the presence of the light

The soul discovered a method just to

Make things right
It is now feeling uplifted, at the top

Like an exponent

By faith it was the known destination

After all those moments
The soul is yours

Remmogo Phukuile

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Poetry – La Petit Mort 

​La Petit Mort

Chickens killed is fowl play

Miscellany o’ death or euthanasia is poignant 

And not as therapeutic as the smell of a bouquet

i am nihilistic 

And yet do not understand death 

Without a stab wound

i still fear the sheath

Holding a knife, any victim will

Be driven mad soon

Death is inevitable

We cannot take the key out of ignition

When it drives us mad

Doom! Doom! Dead!

A Cockroach is dead

You might soak in red

You might choke in bed

Still, we are prisoners

And death our jail

Inescapable, we tried

But we failed.

Anatomy will be the death of me

We live, we die

Why not let it be?

By Remmogo Phukuile