My poetry is ideological- simple words sacredly penetrating, ejaculating and manufacturing ideas inside the sweet womb of the mind.
My poetry is visible semen, with power to lubricate the walls and finally fertilize the psyche. It then miraculously gives birth and nurtures a new view, a new thought, and a new idea.
My poetry is ideological- simple plain words.
My poetry is just regular rhyme
So constant it is but just like time
Smooth like lips plastered with balm
Soft like a breast is to his left palm
Like a sweet melody from the book of psalm
It makes people sometimes to me blame
For all and every time I always claim
My poetry is simple regular rhyme
Very constant it tick-tocks like time
My poetry is natural, spiritual, physical
It interlinks with the metaphysical
It is a gift from the gods, a curse from the same gods.
For my poetry is struggle, constant struggle against future frustrations for black emancipation, black unification, and black purification.
My poetry is dangerous, sometimes silly and adventurous
It can tell of revolutions gone and revolutions to come.
It is dangerous and adventurous for when I become sad and mad I get bad and use words like pluck, suck and sometimes fuck.
My poetry is best words in their best order.
Inside My Head
And then he finishes pumping and he climbs off my tired body and I welcome the release of his weight from on top of me. He is heavy, strong and very heavy. He scrambles for something on the headboard and after a few seconds lights a cigarette. The first thing that comes to my mind is "My dear God, what did i get myself into???” Many other questions run through my mind as he continues smoking his cigarette in silence. Then he whispers something which i don't catch. I ask him to come again and again he whispers an inaudible something. I don't answer. The silence stretches on a little longer and he puts out the cigarettes turns to his side and looks into my eyes. I feel his stare pierce deep into my soul in darkness and I wonder how his face is looking right now, probably smiling I guess, he loves to smile at me and only me. I stare back at him in the same darkness, he doesn’t know it but I really want to talk about it but as a good wife, I will wait for him to bring it up…. Slowly he puts his hand on my hip, I feel his touch, a slow, yet tender caress, and then as if massaging my hip, he moves to my waist and firmly pulls me closer to him. I hate his cigarette polluted breath but I love his complex mind, so I tolerate the stench of his breath.
“Are you happy???” He says.
Am I happy??? I repeat the question to myself. Am I happy, am I happy… The question begins to duplicate itself out of control. Am I happy???
“Babe are you sleeping???” He asks as he kisses my closed lips. I don’t kiss him back not because I don’t want too but because the question is out of control in my mind. How can someone ask me such a serious and important question in a very short phrase?
“Babe” he says it louder this time and my mind aborts the question
“Sthandwa” I answer
“Why are you not talking to me” He asks again
“Because you are asking me something very important- primitive idiot”. I don’t answer
“Why are you on mute??” He persists
“I’m catching my breathe, sorry Hun” I massage his ego, throwing him off my sneaky trail and like a dog to a bone, he goes for it
“Catching your breathe huh???” He chuckles
“That was intense”, I tell him the truth, without any lies
“So you mean you are happy???” He says it with a smile; I feel it in his voice
I get off the bed silently and I know his eyes are trying to follow me in the total darkness. Is happiness defined by multiple sexual orgasms, I ask myself. Again the question regenerates itself out of control inside my psyche.
“Is something wrong” He asks
His voice finds me near the light bulb switch and instead of answering, I flick the switch on and I’m met by anger all around his ugly yet sweet face, he tries to smile and then I see that it’s not anger, its actually true and genuine concern, I discover. I try to smile at him and I see his smile disappear, he sits up and clears his voice
What’s wrong mama???” genuinely again.
I open the door and close it behind me and walk to the loo. All along the way to the toilet, I am asking myself the same question. What does good sex have to do with happiness? Are sex and happiness interlinked? After a few hundred times meditating on this particular concept of life I am brought back to reality by the sound of the toilet flashing. I panic as I discover that I have been literally on auto-pilot the whole time that I am not even sure whether I took a piss or shit. I really need help. My mind is now unable to multitask or I am unhappy. Depression or psychological breakdown, I self-diagnose myself and the ripple effect begins again as I walk back to the bedroom.
Depression or psychological breakdown.
Depression or psychological breakdown.
Depression or psychological breakdown.
“Can you put the light back on please, we really have to talk” He brings me back to reality.
I put on the light and find him with a smoke in hand and concern on his face. Should I tell him about my mind? I ask myself and before it happens again, I nod and he moves higher, sitting up straighter and I recognize what he is doing and I go and sit on the bed near him. He smiles and I smile, for the first time in our marriage we sync in nonverbal communication. He moved, I went and sat. Perfect marriage.
“Did you even hear what I said?” He resuscitates me again
Shit. As I was busy with my nonverbal analysis. He had said something and I didn’t catch it. This head of mine needs a new mind I say to myself seeing his lips move but I don’t hear anything. My head needs a new mind, my head need a new mind, my head needs a new mind. The expression turns into a nursery rhyme. I am out of control I know but there is nothing I can do except that my head wants a new mind. He shacks me back to life, I feel mucus and salt in my saliva, I can’t breathe properly, palpitations.
“I thought you were having a seizure” He is panicking too.
He gets off the bed and stands me up and crushes me into his chest. The hug is so tight, he means it. I hear his fast paced heartbeat in my ears as he squeezes my head tighter into his chest. I listen to the rhythm it makes. I begin to feel my own beat syncing with his, I pull away and go to the mirror, I look at myself, tears and mucus, I am a mess. I take my towel from the wire cutting across the room to hang the mosquito net from and go back to clean myself, after a minute, I try a smile and I am glad I look better and go back to him and open his arms and literally force myself back into that tight uncomfortable embrace only to be met head-on by a faster heart rhythm. I listen to its distorted dual-like bum-bum sound and my heart immediately joins into the rushed pace. I feel the hair at the back of my hair start to rise; tiny minute electric shocks erupt from the rising hair at the back of my neck and quickly spread out throughout my scalp and my heart races faster than his. I again force him to hold me tighter, he responds and take a deeper breathe and my heart accelerates further. Then the electronic shocks start from just under my ankles and rise slowly and stingingly erotic to the back of my knees then to the base of my thighs, I kiss him passionately and I lose control again. I push him to the bed and climb on top of him the shock goes straight to my nipples and spread to my areola then rush down the back of my spine, distributing to my stomach and meeting up at my center and I feel I am ready and I take him. I look into his eyes and see some confusion mingled with surprise and disbelief and I feel deep down inside of me pitying him. I ride him to a certain place secluded from happiness and sadness and I feel him arrive, I join him but I don’t let him go. I bite and ride him until I feel him respond again and I erupt again, leaving him all the hard work for I know he has to get there himself from here onward, I am truthfully tired holding his hand all the time.
And then he finishes pumping and he climbs off my tired body and I welcome the release of his weight from on top of me. He is heavy, strong and very heavy. He scrambles for his cigarette and lights it. He takes a long heavy drag and exhales after a few seconds and he looks sideways into my eyes. The light is on this time. He sees my soul this time. Then speaks and I hear him this time. I am in control again.
“You need to talk to me, now” He demands taking another puff.
“I don’t know what to say” I truthfully answer
“We have been married three days, I know, but are you a sex addict?” He smokes again
“Truthfully, I think it’s far worse than that” I answer boldly
He gets off the bed takes one last pull putting on his boxers and looks at me
“I love my husband’s communication skills” I start to think and the thought begins to...
“Talk to me gaddamit” He shouts me to life
“I think I am crazy, like psychologically unstable, my mind can’t shift from thought to thought it just keeps focusing on the same thing over and over and over and over…. I just want a new mind”
He stands still looking at me, I can’t see his soul, and he is too far. Then my heart starts its own rhythm, slowly at first then a rush pace. The hair at the back of my neck stands and the sensations start…
“Maybe I am a sex addict too I was after all a virgin four days ago” I say with a wet groin and tears on my face.
TITLE INSIDE MY HEAD
GENRE CLEAN EROTICA
AGE RANGE 18+
WORD COUNT 1640
NAME OF AUTHOR XOLILE JOHNSON
JUSTIFICATION Clean erotica is engaging and not easy to
THE HOOK Care to step into an introverts mind?
Aimed at demystifying sex and sexual mysteries, Inside my mind is a story about self discovery. The story is about a young woman with a troubled mind, who tries her best to rediscover herself. Written in the first personna, the story takes the reader on a truthful and intimate jounery as she tries her best to change from being a virgin to a wife. he own intra-conflicts makes the transition more difficult than it should be.
TARGET AUDIENCE Adult Females (&Males)
I am a creative writing student at the College of Creative Arts - Africa, specializing in sceen and stage plays. Short story writing is an intense passion that drives my everday life. I am still at collegfe therefore my biography isnt extentensive but i am learning trhe art of storytelling and hope to grow quickly in the field.
EDUCATION COLLEGE STUDENT
STYLE PSYCHO-ANALITICAL FICTION
HOBBIES READING AND WRITING, CHESS,
HOMETOWN BULAWAYO, ZIMBABWE