The Visage of Thought: Part 4

DSC_0913 copy - wm (1)

The Hand From The Sky Chose Me

I am planted, pick me out from the ground and see the phenomena. I am a warrior formed from yellow woods that sucked sweet waters from Mother Nature’s breasts, and she said to me “You are a star”.

So I will stand here, vivaciously, tenaciously and let it be known that no stick or stone dare break my bones. I am covered by the sun, her light pours unto me. This woman is on the run, no one stop her in her track. She will stand with her poetry and prose to remind the world of love again.

Slowly rip the bandaids of pain away, soothe your sorrows with hope.Tell them of a freedom that will dry the wetness from their eyes.

Dear sister, come with me. Let us live fearlessly.

 I’ve ripened, pick me out.

Prose by Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography

The Visage of Thought: Part 3

DSC_0875 copy - wm

           The Hand Helps Hold Up My Smile

I need help holding up this smile. On most days I can’t do it by myself. These fingers drill into my face and force this façade of happiness on me. My fragility is no foe to my femme. I need to forget that inside I am broke. My teeth are white, standing in a curved line in this faux frame.

I clench my teeth , I can’t seem to unshackle them from my jaws because every time I try the world barricades. How do I smile amidst all this? Mommy can’t smile, she has fists running into her face. My sister can’t smile her face is pinned down to the ground, men barge through her door and steal her sex until all her blood pours. My brother can’t smile: the police are hungry for his flesh. The colour red ravages my street.

Clean out all this cold and corruption, maybe then my smile won’t be disrupted.

Hand me back my life, I need to emancipate my smile.

Prose by  Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography

The Visage of Thought: Part 2

DSC_0862 copy  - wm

              I Look At These Hands

I had these hands clasped around my neck. I had these nails digging deep into my flesh, my air pipes are engraved. Spit falls onto my face this slur is released ‘you’re all animals!’. These hands try to squeeze the life out of me. These hands were mine. You wanted us to kill ourselves.

This self loathe embedded in me, my kind, we carried it in our bones. This wore heavy on our souls. This sun once smiled on us but it soon started to feel like it burns. It blackened our skin.

We had to remember that these hands were ours. Our hands once clapped before made sounds of joy. These hands once embraced and gave nurturing strokes. We remembered  the songs that spilled from our lips, and the rhythm in our hips.

I urged my hands to remember me and release me from their grip.

We were done dying.

Prose by Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography

The Visage of Thought: Part 1

DSC_0846 copy - wm     I Scream

I Scream. I’m suffocating; this world saddens my soul. I’m an anomaly. I don’t appeal to most because they see my skin as a disease that seeps through their souls and summons a sorrow they can’t defeat.

I Scream. This scream steals the breath from my lungs and each time, it echoes into the shallow sides of my mouth. How come I’m a Siren but all this world seeks from me is a sigh? I’m screaming, stand at attention and see this shine.

I scream, so goddamn let me speak.

I know this scream steals your peace and prompts unease, but don’t shoot it’s too soon.

    Don’t shoot, it’s too soon.

Prose by Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography