Archive for the ‘Introspective prose’ Category

Love stoned

Posted: April 28, 2017 in Introspective prose

she thinks she walks around on tiny feet
but no matter how she tries, her shoes are always big
she smiles and waves, a beautiful soul i’ll ever meet
a meek sheep with a lion heart, stuck in a world of filthy pigs


she holds herself when all others crawl
a day without her is a monotonous bore
and yet she doesn’t know it, she is blind to her glow
i’ll forever be infatuated, around her i’ll hang even more…


Lover’s Eyes

Posted: August 25, 2016 in Introspective prose, Melancholy

Well, love was kind for a time
Now just aches and it makes me blind

But do not ask the price I paid,
I must live with my quiet rage,
Tame the ghosts in my head,
That run wild and wish me dead.
Should you shake my ash to the wind
Lord, forget all of my sins
Oh, let me die where I lie
Neath the curse of my lover’s eyes.



Of truths and lies

Posted: July 29, 2016 in Introspective prose, Writing


Sometimes when you seek the truth from someone, it’s not because you want to use it against them or you think it might set you free. Sometimes it’s just about closure. When someone tells you the truth, no matter how damaging, it shows how much they respect you as a fellow human being. To lie to someone is the worst form of betrayal and disrespect in the world. To constantly lie to someone is to show them that you see them as a lesser being…it is something akin to declaring that you don’t see them as human enough to deserve the truth from you. It’s very degrading….it’s very demeaning.





A singular madness

Posted: June 30, 2016 in Introspective prose

dark thoughts and black clouds

The shine in my eyes has faded, a subtle glint left where a brilliance used to sit. My laughter has gone from a bellow to a soft chuckle, and my smile refuses to reach my eyes. I’m tired, exhausted really. Nothing comes easy, with pain and rage being the exception. I struggle against myself to put these few words down, strewn across the page in a rush as if I may run out of time. Ah time, the fleeting moments slipping by merely to remind me that they are gone forever. A morose and melancholy madness plays across my mind, pumping a singular kind of crazy through my veins. I retract back into myself, going into the mass graves of my imagination to sift through ashes of war. Hoping to salvage whatever scraps of ideas or creativity I can find from a time before the conflict. The internal struggle rages…

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I’ve had choices, since the day that I was born…if i had listened, I wouldn’t be here today. Living and dying with the choices I made.” ( George Jones)

       Deep in the throes of despair, in the pangs of regret, we all cry tears of desolation. They are not tears of pity for our sorry predicament. No, those tears of self-pity soon dry out. The tears that linger, that keep us awake all night, are the tears we cry for all those we let down. We cry a river for the people we betrayed because we chose to follow the common path, the people whose faith we broke. We cry for the innocence we lost when chose expediency over integrity–we cry for all the potential lost because we chose the path of least resistance.

          It’s the worst kind of torture, I know, to live with the burden of the pain you inflicted on others(in addition to the pains you feel) . When you look past the wounds you bear and look at the anguished visage of those you broke, when you stop being ignorantly egoistic and care enough to see the hurt we’ve caused, that’s only when you can regain the little shred humanity that is lost to this generation. It’s only the wicked who know peace, for they go through life without any compunction. 

           It ain’t a shame therefore to weep for lost potential. Weep, then, for lost innocence; weep for all broken promises and broken dreams, and for the moral roads left untraveled. Weep for the child inside you who you kill every time you make a bad turn. Above all, weep for the voice of conscience that you chose to ignore. Only then will this world be saved. It’s a long walk to back Eden. Always strive for truth, honor what is good. Strive for virtue. 

A single regret [can] crush a thousand proud deeds” ( Steven Erikson)

The things I believed in were very frail. Very fragile. I didnt know that. I thought they were indestructible. They werent.”

—–The Sunset Limited; Cormac McCarthy.—-


When your mind starts echoing terrible truths (truths that you desperately want to avoid) you do everything to divert your attention. And so you run, with noisy Rock music pounding in your ears to help drown the noise coming from deep within, to drown your own troublesome thoughts. The pace sets itself, proportional to the burdens you carry. And so you pick it up a notch trying hard to outrun your past, your mistakes; you try hard to outrun your own haunts that are killing you, pulling you apart from deep within and shredding the course fabric of you frail sanity. You simply run to avoid going insane.

At this point, jogging becomes more than just a sport. Jogging becomes the only anchor holding you down in the eye of a terrible storm. When everyone from your past has betrayed you, left you reeling in new pangs of anguish, you do your best to remain sane. When your quiet life spins out of control, you hold on to the smallest of straws even if you know that all this charade is a temporary measure.

But how far can one run from himself? In the end, the ghouls and demons always catch up. It’s an inevitable ending. They catch up on you and tear you to shreds without remorse. Maybe it is a better ending than clinging to false hopes while walking the thin blade of near-insanity. ” Lay down your arms, give up the fight,” Greenday sang…

At this moment you stop, giving in to whatever is coming your way. You know “’s time to live and let die, and you can’t get another try. Nothing is ever built to last”…At least you tried your best to run, you did…But finally the road ends at a cliff’s edge or you simply run out of energy or the pain just gets intolerable (“it’s getting dark, too dark to see. feels like I’m knocking on heaven’s door”) . All good things come to end but the bad stuff always pile up until they break you and suffocate you…it’s a fact of life. But the world spins madly on…


Some references to the following songs:
a) 21 Guns by Greenday
b) The World Spins Madly On by The Weepies
c) Knocking on Heaven’s Door by Bob Dylan

It’s a common human proclivity to wallow into the deep throes of self-pity; to sit down and bawl about whatever misfortune has befallen them. Suddenly, one ventures into the philosophical kind of thought: “How?”and most tragically “Why?”

There is no such thing as wasted years. You live, you love, you win and you lose: along the way, you touch the lives you were meant to touch. But in the end, life goes on. The pages turn, and your hand is forced to start a new chapter–sometimes on a tattered piece of grubby old parchment.

And so begins the new chapter; written painfully in sweat, tears and tainted blood upon a rotten piece of flesh. For a change you start to feel the fatigue of your fallen flesh, you feel the heavy load of each day taking its toll upon your festered bone, and you feel your frail heart pumping poisonous blood to your swollen extremities. This makes you leave whatever notions of youthful immortality you might have clung to…and you start wondering about eternity and oblivion. 

What lies ahead? What new peaks to climb and pits to avoid? Is there a fiery pit or is just blissful oblivion? There is always a storm, there is always a hurricane. Each one weathers us in its own fashion, relentless and as unforgiving as the gods who punish children for the sins of their fathers. 

It’s a rigged game, everyone knows it. It’s never fair, this life we live. And yet you dare not say it out loud, for he who utters that universal truth will be considered weak and puny

“Stop wining,” “Suck it up like a man,” “Take it on the run,” “You always go down swinging,” “Keep your head up.”…the clichés hit from every angle and we all are forced to put on a show. But who is watching? Is anybody out there? We never really know.

The world is a circus and we are all freaks and apprentices in this carnival of fools (this I attest and you can quote me in front of the judge, jury and a multitude of witnesses..I won’t deny) But where do we find ourselves when the carnival stops? What do we do when the masks lose their charm and we are are forced to look into the eyes of the stranger who lies behind all the lies?

We find ourselves on our knees; eyes closed and tears streaming down our cheeks. At that point in time, it no longer matters if anyone is listening. The world brings us all down to our knees, it tolerates no standing man. “The spirit is willing yet the body is weak.” True desperation is that moment when you start bargaining in your prayers. But who will buy you prayers to the highest bidder? Is anyone listening?

All we do in this life is try to get comfort from any place we can. We cling to the familiar and we all search for a miracle. Born to struggle and born to die, we all have to come to terms with it. 

“We’re all born bearing the weight of time. We all live clamouring to survive, and we all die longing to feel alive.” The rock band Gates sang and I quote. Living is a just a fleeting feeling we get at times, most times we simply exist. I’m not wining, I just deal in facts…..and they usually are very stubborn things….Are you getting your share of life?

@DavidPhiri 2015

Guys Like Us

Posted: August 13, 2015 in Introspective prose

When your life is dark, light is just a fleeting memory that lingers mockingly. And so against all advice not to, you hold to the past—you hold on to memory. Letting go means losing all the light, it means losing all hope. For the past holds all truth in this cornucopia of chaotic madness. The past reminds you that nomatter how trite and futile this life is, there are ghosts that will forever understand you—ghosts that once danced merrily in the vast plains of your lonely heart—ghosts you let down once but never more.

And so you hold on to your amorphous ghosts; pale spirits devoid of all memories yet still better companions to the ones you now have. Even though they are just figments of your own guilty conscience, you hold on to them nonetheless. They are the core and they are the roof, without them you’re just a wisp of shadow.

There is no virtue in letting go, this a proven fact. You might try hard to shout in out to all shrinks and people who think they know better but they never will understand. Letting go severs all compunctious sentiments and you realize, when the time comes, that letting go was never one of your quiddites.

Why move on when you can linger in utopian memories? Why let go of the beautiful faces and warm smiles that gave life to your heart? Why burn bridges to the few people who helped you hang on to your sanity when your whole world was topsy-turvy — people who knew the right words to selflessly motivate you for the greater good? There is no reason to let go. Instead you have every reason to hold on to the memories (meager as they may be) and let them be a beam of hope as you swing into the unknown future. Let them be a beacon as you wonder into the mystic.

The past may be obdurate but the future is relentless. It waits fully armed and it drains us of all happy thoughts. The future is full of longings and regrets and yet we look forward to it. All we do is hope, all we do is pray. We pray to all known entities for we are not even sure of the right deities. Simple and insufferable idiots as we might be, we pray not for riches or gold at the end of the rainbow; we pray instead that after all has been said and done, we’ll still be holding on to our wits—we’ll still be holding on to our marbles. This is our essence, Guys like us, this is our threnody.

Life goes on and we leave the people we once were behind. It’s the continuous river of time and we’re just mere silt caught in the undercurrent. Rivers flow into seas and seas into oceans, and yet we get tangled early downstream. It’s the rhythm of life, you just have to take what you can.

David Phiri 2015