Underestimate Me Not.

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I intimidate
I threaten and throw you off your tracks
Blindsided by ego and a lack of respect
You never thought I had it in me to retaliate.
How could it be?
In your validated bravado, accolades and strength
Bested by quick wit and a brazen smile
Intelligence and a soul too deep
Your shallow mind could never read
The intricacies and nuances of higher knowledge
Only elevated thinking could acknowledge
There is more to me than this
There is more to me than this frame you see.
This skin, this hair
These hands and this flair
Behind the beauty and smile
Is a mind worth more than your while
You hold me to a limited stature
Of basic looks and flattering conjecture
Choosing to focus merely on what is seen.
What you perceive, assume and fill in
And ignore all that maketh me
But I am made of more than looks and simple thoughts
My creativity ebbs and flows like rivers into waterfalls
Psyche made of convolutions and depressions.
Surface deep has never left much of an impression
Understanding of the world with skin its harshness couldn’t peel
A wild spirit, a mixture of fire and feels
Sensitivity to heal, hear me; I am a woman
Interwoven with longing, jubilance and spontaneity
Poetry by Tamara Lesabe
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“This is poem is based on a woman in the creative industry, the assumptions that are placed on a woman by society, creatives and men. It is about being more than the physical and woman breaking barriers beyond their looks and what people have always expected to do. Doing away with the limitations put on woman because they do not believe that woman are capable of doing a “mans job”. Its also about exposing the beauty of the mind and creativity.” – Tamara Lesabe.
                                                                           Model: Palesa Williams.
Photographer: Ray Manzana.
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Desperation.

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You reek of desperation, said the worn out image of my once youthful self in the mirror. The same mirror I had picked out with so much enthusiasm had now become my enemy, I cannot recognise the girl staring back at me no matter how hard I try. My hollow eyes desperately seeking to see a bit oh heaven and freedom, my skin barely keeping it together, and my smile, that once lit up the room has become nothing more than a painted red marked smile of a sad clown.

When did I become this person, when did I give up?

Whe shower can’t seem to wash away all the sins I’ve committed I suppose I was warned that only Jesus can wash away sins. Prayer a distant thought and a memory of small child still pure. No matter how much Listerine I use, I can’t seem to wash out the cigarette and alcohol taste of my recent lover sprawled over my bed.

What happened to me?

I crawled back into the sheets, seeking warmth from the motionless heart of my suiter. I knew from the onset he knew not what love is yet my desperate heart accepted the less he offered, I thought I knew better? I guess I was tired, of sleeping alone, not having a date to all my friend’s weddings, always that one friend you couldn’t double date with, and being the one who befriended wine cellars and strip clubs, with a closet full of sex toys to raise stimulation in my heart that doesn’t know how to beat anymore. I guess my career can’t keep me warm at night after all.

I tainted my own aura.
The nightmares that sleep with me seem to be more alive during the day than night. I can’t keep popping pills to kill the voices in my head consuming my sanity, and yet I lie here, every night next to a being whose sole purpose for my life is destruction. Why did I not listen when he said he ain’t no good for me? I tried to change him, but instead I became him and slowly the worms of his deceit have been eating at me from the inside out; all along thinking its time I picked out my casket and my headstone, because behind all this make-up and perfect hair, I’m merely a walking corpse.

You reek of desperation.
I have opened up my legs more times than I have walked this earth simply to fill a void inside me, but the warmth I welcomed still kept me cold. With each orgasm I died further, the thrill of life leaving my soul with every sweat kissing the pillow, my heart out of sync with my spirit. I did this to myself I keep saying. Drink more and numb the pain, my worth has diminished, my sheets will never become clean, tainted by the self-induced miscarriages to keep him by my side.
You reek of desperation.
My worn out body screaming pick me in brothels and drunk yards, my saintly being washed away by the waters of Gomorrah and Sodom, doubt Jesus can save this soul. Redemption is a far cry; I bet you when he took the keys from hell, clearly my soul was already trapped there. The preachers have laid their hands on me casting out the demons of my poor choices, blaming the devil for my actions, blinded by the unknown reality of a non-existing self-love. Dear Jesus, please come down.

You reek of desperation.
Broken virgin vows a constant reminder when he penetrates without my consent, purity a far cry. All I seem to know so well lately is the river of bed of men whose name I can barely pronounce that I have made my comfort. My mother birthed a whore, no use denying it. I guess I could hope a little, that perhaps when the rain stops pouring and the rainbow peaks from the cloud, a bit of the colours will shine upon my 50’s black and white life film, I am exhausted by the desperate need to belong and find peace. Dear Jesus, can you hear me, they said you are real, I’m waiting.

I reek of desperation.

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Written by Amogelang Lekwadu.

Photography by Brigid Schutz.

Prince Sagë.

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From gracing the stage at Creative Union #TheVisionBoard to her poetry EP, Prince Sagë is a creative force to be reckoned with. Get to know a little more about her and her latest projects.

“For me being a creative is being true to myself and being able to express myself in raw emotion while not caring what anyone else says because what I do is art, some will love it and some will hate it. The only thing that I really care about is if people feel it. I want to find comfort in my poetry, performing is freeing for me and I want my audience to feel that way too.

I would like to think that I am unique because I’m trying to incorporate different elements in my poetry that’s why  I call myself the Punk Prince Of Poetry. I’m trying to get people to listen to my poetry in a different way incorporating punk rock that’s the music that I grew up listening to. I try to instill a lot of the rock sounds that I like so that every poem which is produced has all of me in it.

I’m currently working on my second EP which will be released later on this year, it showd how far I’ve come in my craft. I really think that there should me more poetry based shows, we shouldn’t be the openers anymore we should be the show. I really feel as if Rhythm And Poetry is going back to the days when it was really appreciated because a lot more people see the value in its expression.

To up and comers I say that keep pushing and don’t compare yourself to your peers otherwise everything you do, you will see as stagnant. Focus on your own craft.” – Prince Sage

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Follow Prince Sage on:

Instagram: uhm.sage
Twitter: @UhmSage

Save her.

 

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Where did she go? No, not the girl with a halo.
Not the one who screamed hello into oblivion hoping to be found by an angel.
Where did she go? No, not her, not the empty vessel.

No, not the one who hid under the mattress from monsters that weren’t afraid of the dark
She isn’t lost, she’s merely breaking.
No, not physically. He wouldn’t dare make it obvious.

I can literally hear her heart breaking, tick tock, anytime now she might give in.
I can’t find her, the veil is too thick, and the mist from her eyes blinding.
She was young, stranger’s aren’t people you know
That’s what teacher said, he’s family.
Should we tell teacher now?
How could you possibly find her now?

Wait…
I saw her once, without an ounce of hope left in her
But I saw her eyes, she was somehow still strong.
I saw her tear, no it did not burn her flesh
But surprisingly, it fed her spirit.
She spoke to me, not in words but in visions
Envisioning her metamorphosis stage
The girl you are looking for,
She’s at the end of the teardrop.
Save her.

Written by Amogelang Lekwadu.

Artwork by Euphoriaheart.

 

Click.

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Click, click; bang, bang

Pull the trigger on your fake feelings

Watch the bullet fly across the room,

Gathering up the pain you caused me,

Combing through the smoke and mirrors of your truth

Moulding into a perfect storm,

Waiting on the perfect moment

When it shreds your weak heart

Into nothing more than crumbled pieces of regret

Making your blood splatter across the room

Look, I think I just created a Picasso.

Click, click, bang, bang.

Did you forget I own a weapon?

Fumbling over your promises,

Pray my next bullet struck your forehead,

Watch it cracks open your skull

Hope the metal erodes your head

And your blood ceases to flow,

so your every thought is a cry for help

your veins scream for redemption

Click, click; bang, bang.

Unlike you, my weapon is a silent prayer for your happiness.

Poetry by Amogelang Lekwadu.

Photo by Glen Mog

Artwork by Eshinelokunwasiu

Dance.

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Two step with me,

Wave your hips for me,

Throw your hands in the air,

Careful, don’t trip on your shoelace.

 

Look out! Don’t hit the wall.

Aaah! You just stepped on my foot!

Stop! Sigh!  We really should stop hugging the floor now.

Okay, let’s try this again.

Get up.

Ready?

 

And that my darling,

Will forever be the dance of life.

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Written by Amogelang Lekwadu.

Photography by Brigid Schutz.

My blue band angel.

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I wish I could see you again,

Tell you it gets better.

I wish I could hug you,

And remind you that it’s okay.

 

I do not know how far you have come,

Are you hanging in there?

I do not know if you are fitting well with society again,

Are you still as strong?

I pray for you.

 

I wear the band you made for me,

The blue sky of our former dark days.

I wear the band as my beacon of hope,

A reminder of how far I have come.

I wear the band as my silent prayer for you.

 

Thirteen with the world crushing you.

Twenty one with renewed strength.

Thirteen with a bright future.

Twenty one, broken.

Together, banded forever;

By reality and hope.

Yours in spirit,

The girl who wears the blue arm band.

 

Written by Amogelang Lekwadu.

Photography by Brigid Schutz.