Written in the 3rd Person

Hi, I'm Lwazi - poet and author with a passion for the word. South African native. Born creative. This page is primarily for my poetry, as I work towards my anthology, but from time to time I'll post quotes or inspiration from other writers - I will do my best to state the author if it's not me. If you'd like me to boost your works, just say the word. I'd be happy to on my other page, @halfmanhalfbizkit.

[my-lit-ink]

Someone New

I've met someone new

With sunset in her eyes

And a look that promises bright mornings

A smile that shyly

Hides itself from the world

But is sometimes seen to stretch

To the horizon

I met a girl with a galaxy of stars

On her skin

A whisper of the suns kiss on her brow

Holding a suggested warmth in her arms

She smells of home

Of where I came from

And almost forgot.

She reminds me of a childhood memory

Of innocence and a wide eyed sentimentality lost

Her form

As though sculpted whole

From marble stone

Perfected tone

To be set atop a pedestal

And stand alone

As the lamplight shown

That shon to show a wondering soul

The point where they belong

And should harbour at shore

Providing shelter from the storm.

I stole a moment with her

Undeserving, but content to merely be in her presence

Sometimes you know that something's are just not meant to be

But can I be blamed for just pretending?

For lending the time

Of the celestial divine

And pretending that, just for a time,

This could be mine

... Too

"Bending the truth

To borrow a few moments with you"

I met someone broken

Trying to hold it together

Hiding her cracks from a world she thinks expects more

Hiding her cracks from me, although there is nothing in this world

That would make me adore her more

She hides what I seek to find

And the more I seek

The more it seems

I create this dream

That she's made for me

But I can candidly see the fallacy

That I stand alone in this twisted malady

Wistfully wishing for a fantasy

That only I can see.

"Oh, to be unseen and intangible to thee"

I gamble with broken hearts

And plant shards where it's hard to seed

"What's wrong with me?"

To have sailed this shore before

And seen that it ports at sorrows door

And yet I find myself at the stern

With nothing learned

Pushing to go forth

I met her with such sadness trapped behind her hardened mask

I could see her truth through the veil before I asked

But I could fix her

I could make it all alright

Abandoned reason

Thrown to caution; sacrifice

This could be different

Perhaps she would stay this time

But can we risk it

Can a dream survive the night?

- by Lwazi Molepo

(10 minute poem)

[mentalmenteinstabile]

Ghosts

[filmtvtoday]

Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.

DEAD POETS SOCIETY dir. Peter Weir

[beaucolics]

HISTORy WAS MADE IN THIS FILM

[northwindow]

Franz Wright, from God’s Silence

[smokefalls]

Every heart is fractured differently and she knows the pattern of her cracks, she traces them like lines across her palm.

Brit Bennett, The Mothers

[uaravsh]

"I am a writer perhaps because I am not a talker."

- Gwendolyn Brooks

[my-lit-ink]

[ruknowhere]

[theatheistgirl]

[My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness. - Virginia Woolf.]

[sawasawako]

hold on a second man…

[vee-not-afraid]

@insect-p0sitivity tags peer approved

[balkanparamo]

William Blake on poetry

[old-school-romantics]

— George R.R. Martin

[psykopaths]

Nostalghia, (1983)

Dir - Andrei Tarkovsky

[joytri]

Silence also has a voice, but it needs a soul that understands it.

Anonymous

[iseetheworldinmetaphor]

"When I'm writing, I am trying to find out who I am, who we are, what we're capable of, how we feel, how we lose and stand up, and go on from darkness into darkness." —Maya Angelou

[m00nw1tchh-deactivated20230227]

That’s the truth

[hatin]

via weheartit

[fiction-quotes]

Everything has become a dream. There is a veil between me and them, so that they are shadows and I am dead, and the veil is perhaps a shroud that dims the light and blurs the vision. I have been to war, and it has created a chasm between me and those who have not; what do they know about anything: Since I encountered death, met death on every mountain path, conversed with death in my sleep, wrestled with death in the snow, gambled at dice with death, I have come to the conclusion that death is not an enemy but a brother. Death is a beautiful naked man who looks like Apollo, and he is not satisfied with those who wither away in old age. Death is a perfectionist, he likes the young and beautiful, he wants to stroke our hair and caress the sinew that binds our muscle to the bone. He does all he can to meet us, our faces gladden his heart, and he stands in our path to challenge us because he likes a clean fair fight, and after the fight he likes to befriend us, clap us on the shoulder, and make us laugh at all the pettiness and folly of the living. At the conclusion of a battle he wanders among the dead, raising them up, placing laurels upon the brows of those most comely, and he gathers them together as his own children and takes them away to drink wine that tastes of honey and gives them the sense of proportion that they never had in life.

But he didn’t take me and I don’t know why. I was brave enough, certainly. I never avoided danger, and I continued even when my body was already destroyed. I think I lived because our commanders were too clever, I think I lived because death loved the Italians. Death told them to advance in line abreast our strongest points, and we mowed them down like corn. But our generals made us outflank, outmanouevre, ambush, disappear and reappear. Our generals made it difficult for death, and so, instead of striking me with bullets, he made my body rot as much in a few months as with others he causes in sixty years. It was the cold, mud, parasites, starvation, grief, fear, blizzards of crystals sharper than glass, rain so dense that fish could have swum in it, all the things that there is no point in explaining because a civilian cannot even imagine it.

  —  Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (Louis de Bernières)

[joytri]

Hands are unbearably beautiful. They hold on to things. They let things go.

Mary Ruefle