The Sense of the Pen-Real Gland

By Nhlanhla Moment Seyama

The journey is in writing. the writing is on the wall
It was a breeze
It was pleasing to knees
It shook me, my hands did freeze
I was appalled by the chances that I missed
All the girls who waited, whom I never kissed
All the girls who called me names as they were pissed
It was a breeze, that calmed then shook
It was a coldness that led me to void as alone I stood
Then came a voice that told me of the things that can be
Then played a song that convinced me to not be melancholy.
The electric waves rose
The voice of wisdom spoke, and I chose.
Chose to let flow and let go
A cryptic expression said mo
Mo, move and lay low and let the life slow: show all you could know if you just let flow

And there I was on the go...
Soon the signs did show
A beautiful child smiled and glowed
I stood stationary and held pole
I kept in mind intellect and weighed the chances elect
I was driven and direct
I had been against the ropes and fought the demons of death
And soon conquered myself for I had been in my own way
I found a friend and we did play
We commune and do not run out of things to say
Of ruins and hard pillars I did away
Then rosy opportunities showered on the day...

Why these roses follow me?

It is a bed, it is the floor
It is the flower, it is the thorns
It is the trust, it is the paws
It is the beauty, it is the flaws
It is the dark, it is the grey
It is mark, it is a stain
It is love evident in pain
a gland with a sense as its pen name

Why these roses follow me?

Cast into a world where I am not lonely
Embracing a heart looking for another to hold me
Stuck on a stage where my potential is for showing
Captured in the portraits of artistry where I have mine only
Walking in a garden where there are flowers of love
Picking at will and having a thrill
Hoping it doesn't tarnish my halo stored in the compartments of legends high above
Coming now help, healing all ills
Smiling and flying high, chuckling to rapture
Stunned by the feeling that has been laid to capture
Dancing alone to the sounds of movement
And I hear mo once more

Why these roses follow me?

Still drooling at how I defied adversity
How I was invincible as stinging bee
When I could have thrown the towel --- I picked myself up
When the thorns pierced my heart, I looked at the beautiful and sniffed the perfume of the flower...
I smiled at vulnerability and whispered that love is the power
I chose to keep moving as I acknowledged that I am a star,
and any soul to divinity; is never that far

Why these roses follow me, is because of the test that is measuring my ability to chase myself, get out of my way and be all I can be. The third part of me said life is mine for receiving.
I lo and behold then, as the voice said mo, as such I keep moving.

SENSE OF THE PEN-REAL GLAND
A collection meandering through various subject matters carousing reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nhlanhla Moment Seyama
• Release date: Sep 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463343470

Nhlanhla Moment Seyama

Nhlanhla Moment Seyama is a writer who has been writing poetry and short stories on online platforms for the past five to six years, including on the online community; Hello Poetry. During and after my music studies, I would lodge my creativity under writing. My writing rationale and vocabulary has been inspired by many writers and even art in its holistic form (visual art, music, movies and dancing... Amass however, I am inspired by life experience and the dreams of the world that can be created if we embrace our human potential to improve the human condition.I write on different subjects, from Romance, to Science Fiction, to Adventure, Action and Political Drama. I am on a journey to explore a broader audience. Allow yourself to get lost in the imaginings herein, and maybe it will brighten your world with colour in some hopeful way.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 - The Backbone Inspiration

Begging

Clothed In Coloured Covers

Consciousness

Findings

His Presence

Home

Land of The Lost

Let Love

Flow

Renaissance Man

Political Poetry

Power

Prison Bars

Chapter 2 The Waking Eye Opens

Rescue Me

Abortion of the Child

Afrique

For the Day, The twist and the Weight

Glance into The Heart-Light

Heart's distillation

Hello Child

The probability

Secret Window

The Spores of Sound, The Sound of Spores

The Turn

Vestige-Conquest

What is life?

What is to live?

I wanna be

Break Of Day

Heaven In My Dreams

Swept

The eye

The Social Bleach

Wavelength

Chapter 3 For Love

A fantastical pairing

Dear Mysterious ‘X’

Lies in Eyes

Love Essays

NEED A LOVE

Passion of The Sun

Perfect Colour

Flower

If just We

Lost In It

Blissful Wonder

Moved

Heart's tell

Stolen Kiss

Sweet Promise

The Voice Of An Angel

Tune sewn

Why You Me

Set Love Free

She evened

In Seasons She

She Stands

Do to Ti — a Singing Lover is Thee

LOVE and its Antonyms

falling in

Love and Death

All I Know Is Love

That Guy Sleeps with My Girlfriend

Sparks Fly

Love Eternal

But to Love It Matters

...And Let Us Kiss...

Best Shot

Midnight Lover

Ode, to You, Love I Say

Our Song

Candles in this Light

Emotion Passing

Angel of Love

You Are...

Emotions Savoured

Floral Beauty

A Love Unrequited

Beneath The Mask

Away

Broken Rose

Dirty Doubt

Chapter 4 Sheet Music

Moments Of Pleasure

Grand Entry

Lust – Premature Farewell

Purely Clandestine

THE FIRST TIME

The Invite

Erotica epitome

Sensual Geometry

Poetry Session

Love Is A Science

Make Love to Me in a Time Machine

Chapter 5 Touching The Universe

Did You Ever?

Dignity of the Conscience

Where is the CreationStation?

The Association..

Standing On The Balcony Of Space

A Callfrom the Pleiadeans

ISaw A Falling Star

THE Prism of One

The Ladder

The Preview

These things I've seen

Poet's Society

The Long-Haired Tall Pale Ones

Can I Get aWitness?

FREEDOM

Chapter 6 Conceptual Sphere

RHYTHM

Sometimes

I am a Wreck

Al, LAST NAME, Most

Welcome To The Matrix

We Were Poets

Recession. Depression. Emotion. Expansion

Terror of The Night

Life at the Theatre

Losing People

Watching

Buried!

Do You Know Evil?

ENCASED IN A FACE OF A TALE'S CAGE

Tethered and Lacerated

Standing alone In the Rain

Truth or Die

Little girl

The Hobo on the STREETS

The Man with the Broken Face

Nobody listens to The Child

Walk Of Shame

I'm Sorry

Graveyard of the Old Soul Child

The Count of a Person

Where Do We Go?

When Women Loved

Chapter 7 The Bright Strings Light

Flying Lessons

Send Me

FATHER SAVE THE CHILD

smile it's fine

forms and awkward norms in a storm

The Person as of Soul

Walking On Water

Servitude: Principle

a hustler's prayer

GOLDEN CHILD

Epilogue

Introduction

Intense at the least. Blood boiling and the ceiling falling. This must be the end. My heart swells at an alarming rate. Am I at all late for my date with fate? What about this life proposed? What about all the promises that have been made? My vessels vibrate and my body shakes. Could this be the end? Can I mend? Can I meet my dreams before night’s end? I feel nervous and this feeling gets severe. Only hope, is what I feed on. I prey on negativity and ravish. I chase my goals and accomplish. I stretch myself and sink into my depth. The severe feeling now becomes constricted before it is drained. A rush of agony and anticipation grows. There comes an energy that urges me. I must take my chances. I must love.

I must gather and conquer. I have surrendered and have grown wiser. I am the dream. I am the might. This past sore or clear; is now dust. Dust, in which I trust for it has brought me might. Soon we will swim in the streams of broad delight. I am the dream. I must win… I must succeed.

I hear the voice that never spoke. All the pictures fate should have drawn. I burn from the saliva that made me choke. I am sorry for the stories I never told. There are lines of moments that make up the pages of my throat. Where they walk, take me where they gallop. Where they stand; show me where they command, take me where they are.

Great One, wrap me in your arms. For What's in a name? It must be continual pain... A provident blame in shame or fame... A carriage of what man has in his hands... It must be in the heart... The pump that bleeds recognition... The sound that calls for mention... A memory which remains of what and how a man spends his days.

Well on my way... Watching shots fly away, crying and singing; hoping for rain. Looking for a better me, looking to rid my woes. It is heavy and hard on this road. I look to the sun for passion. I watch the stars and drool on the moon for places I cannot imagine. Wrapped up in the cold. Holding onto my loneliness post. I am a sad case for older folks. Well on my way looking for a brighter day. Looking to do away with my sombre ways.

There are lanes of confinement after we find freedom. Just wall after wall prohibiting. We best grind and find sound mind, to get out of this prison. Success is the vision. We still remain wishing; waiting for angels and saints to help heal this severe pain. Wounded body and weight around my waist. The place to trace is where the mysterious sensory pulse, gaits. The mind and soul dissect the webbing of the heart. There is a reflex to propose an expression; the pen! A tool of this metamorphosis.

Well on my way to find the future me – a bright self that fights for life. Looking to live the dream, longing to embrace the vision. A sense must permeate, to sustain the mission.

Chapter 1 - The Backbone Inspiration

Begging

It looks promising... High heels, make-up all over her face. Smudged in all that is fake, just to have an expensive lay. Smeared in all the sleaze the civil world can think of just to have him pay. Pay for drinks and dance the night away and then lay. So beautiful and upright but always played. The night is a rocker and no room for any show-stoppers. The bass is arousing and the alcohol has her drowning. Exuberant and wet ‘til the morning, upon which he says: LEAVE, LET'S NOT MAKE THIS SOMETHING THAT WON'T REMAIN. IT WAS A GOOD NIGHT BUT AS THE SUN HAS RISEN  IT HAS JUST SEEMED TO FADE.

She's back in the mirror with the truth to face. Nobody to tell her she's beautiful at her place. Missing the moments of the first love… Juvenile and innocent days. As the tears rush into her eyes and run down her face, it seems to be the only real thing… And the make-up just dough for some cake.

Yearning and burning, she finds herself kneeling as night after night she had been tossing and turning. Praying for a man whom is of her love deserving. Just begging, kneeling, yearning and burning, as every other night it is tossing and turning.

Just the shrill; which is the sound of how living a lie, kills. Begging for humanity, asking for more than frivolity. Longing for a love true, knocking on the doors of chance to find hers true. Begging, knocking, yearning and thirsty. Just to have a guy from the night through the day. To avoid the sadistic and lonely nights of tossing and turning. The twist would be dancing and falling. Just begging to have one true who can break the fake bars that protect her from you.

Begging and waiting for the truth to attack the lie she has been defending.

Clothed In Coloured Covers

It is a pity. We are spiritual beings that love this world so much.

We constantly want to touch, feel and confirm the existence of things.

Constantly wanting providence. When the truth to face is the essence; which we ran from in the beginning.

We prefer the mask to the flesh. We would rather wear the mask that comforts than the flesh that hurts.

We want to be lied to. We want to live a lie.

The awe of this truth that is revelation, is too much. And yes, it is okay, I guess, in the beginning; to wear the mask because it fits and close company stays happy.

But life as we know it; is a progress. It may be warm and soothing in the beginning but with time, the sands run out as those of the hour glass.

But love intense, love intense; for the mask. The truth, where it is, all too grotesque. Oh! No filthy, filthy, what truth? Let's just cover it up, splash colours and find reason to fit. Is that not the attitude!

Who be insane as to fall in love and romance the truth; he be a fake man, they would say! But what if a child grew with the nudity and pain of the truth?

This would be a child of the world. This would be one being who lives reality; which in the common world would be magic.

It is a pity, it is tragic, how we lose that magic and wear the mask.

The mask, carrying plentiful lies. Exuding endless illusion.

Freezing mental grimace, where a way of thinking would be still, time has stood, and the orchestrators (those who decide the order) capture.

And in time, before you know it, individuals have not only lost identity but the truth that ignites the soul which breathes consciousness.

You look around and all you see are models   frozen in time   clothed in coloured covers.

But where is family? Where are the real people: the brother, sister, mother and father… Somewhere lost in a land where they have no hands to mend, only eyes to watch catastrophe unfold. The reason remaining is the guidance that was instilled. The continuity and survival of these maxims is the hope for tomorrow.

Confessions of a Sinner

I'm a nice bad guy looking for redemption. I'm the weird guy looking for attention.

I'm the ruin looking for significance. I'm the underground hotshot looking for remembrance.

I'm the dreamer who never lands on the shallow ground. I'm the beast in chains who knows no freedom — always bound.

I'm in the way of pain. I'm the help to the sane.

I'm a lover with a crazy heart. I'm a heartbreaker to all my sweethearts.

I'm the cold and ruthless prisoner. I'm the hero who is a soul healer.

I'm the child in confusion. I'm the adult who has long been chances refusing. I'm the decision when there are multiple options for choosing.

I'm a killer for not living. I'm alive because I push myself to keep dreaming.

I'm the demon who has been bruising mortality. I'm the angel who has been bringing life to this soul that has been dying.

I'm the height that planes fly in. I'm the depth that ships sink in.

I'm the question that stands to reason. I'm the answer that is vague and displeasing.

I'm the life and light at the end of the tunnel. I'm the dimmest darkness before the end.

I'm the human that works with hand. I'm the one blamed when there are helpless children who are not fed. I'm the one blamed when there are poisonous programs on television and children have not gone to bed. I'm the last option when I could've been the first choice instead. I'm the weight at the top, I'm called the head.

I'm the sinner when I've done something amiss. I'm righteous when the good things I do not miss. I'm wise when my ways have no twists. These are confessions of a sinner that are refined in Heaven if on earth they are cryptic.

Consciousness

It was only conversation. Exchanging thoughts that are animate. Expressing one's depth and intellect. It was the expression of effect. It was a colour of reason and word of dialect.

It was an inspired day where things were clear. It was the eruption of epiphany. The expansion of sensibility. It was eager to show. Eager to let free and make it self-known. The power within revealed in conversation. Inspirational elements that evoke dead and dry places. The flow of vivified waters that breathe and pass through the ears and go to the brain where they will live. Live and enliven all dead elements of consciousness.

Consciousness, the acknowledgement of existence. The attaining of value to each breath. The mass transferred into words as within speech the words spoken have weight. Weight that will lift the sleepy masses. It will awaken nations and give motivation. It will hypnotize cowards and victims to be fighters. It will sound the order of God to remind the vast majorities of Who has authority. It will be daunting; the voice of consciousness. It will give stance where there is an entity or being; invertebrate. It will send a message to your soul that is lively. The heart will not only beat but vibrate. The waves of flow, on the go; conscious, will reflect the air inside of you that pulsates.

It will inspire nations to fight for their lives. It will remind them to not give up and never subside.

The voice of consciousness speaks of black and coloured flags of a just nation. It seeks for one with the seed to descend the order of deceased freedom fighters.

Words will be weapons and discipline the shield. A voice of wisdom will doubt heal. The consciousness keeps on knocking, let it in and start living.

It was found in conversation when elements of power that exude: intellect, tolerance, patience and wisdom; were expressed. She came with a transparent dress… Was appealing to liberals and democrats. Appealing to flyers of the freedom and justice flag. She had milk in her humungous and luscious breasts; to breastfeed a nation of lost children. Her name was the subject. Her name is consciousness.

Findings

That spark will shine again. In day will come a knight — he, not in the dark. Kindle like candle. Vivify, amplify and fill the vivid views of virgin