We're All Dead ~ Siyabonga Dlamini

Welcome to our world 

we're all dead here

we spend each day breaking our own hearts

and shedding endless tears

The world of those holding on to broken promises

and endless heartache

Where the hidden sorrow is as real

as the smiles are fake

Welcome to our world

we're all dead here

Holding on to memories 

of those who have long forgotten us

but to us, they are still dear

Where we constantly contemplate

what was, what could have been and what is

Where we deeply hate ourselves

and find it hard to forgive

Welcome to our world

we're all dead here

where moving forward seems impossible

and is our greatest fear

where we always endlessly relive our past

with the lovers who are ours no more

and remind ourselves of how our actions

caused them to go

We constantly weep, grieve and lament

The suffering seems to know no end

Welcome to the land of the broken

Welcome to the land of endless tears

Welcome to our world

We're all dead here...

© Siyabonga Dlamini

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Class of 2016
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No One can Tell Our Stories ~ Siyabonga Dlamini

Broken and sorry

No one can tell our stories

We come in different sizes and shapes

With different bruises and scrapes

Some are still brave and bold

While others empty and cold

In a world of our own

We've all been abandoned and are alone

Broken and sorry

No one can tell our stories

With disfigured bodies and shattered hearts

We have been cursed to forever bear our past scars

Of broken trust and deadly deceit

From beloved parents

Right up to strangers we met on the street

Who took our lives in the blink of an eye

And left us wondering,"Why, oh why?"

Broken and sorry

No one can tell our stories

We constantly relive

The happy moments from our previous lives

Before the unimaginable pain and strife

Before we collided with the soil from which we came

When life was still only fun and games

When we could still rmember our names

Broken and sorry

No one can tell our stories

In old and filthy clothes

With knife slashes to our throats

Bullet holes and axe wounds to the head and chest

We were prematurely put to rest

Some with unspeakable scars too scary

The methods of murder really do vary

Broken and sorry

No one can tell our stories

Stuck in this desolate place

From all walks of life and age

Where days and time seem forever frozen

Yet the door for new residents, is always open

Some are yellow and green from horrible, tragic plagues

With sores all over and pass oozing from their face

Sad, forgotten and alone

No one can tell our stories

We are the deceased children stuck in purgatory...

©  Siyabonga Dlamini

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Class of 2016
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Suicide is Not an Act of Cowardice ~ Zaynab Asmal

Don’t tell me these kids are weak
The weak would never dance the line between life and death
Would never press metal to organ, press end to life
Because the hardest part of a suicide is that final step:
The fall comes after in the dizzying rush
But before that is the knowing that it all ends
That no more oxygen will come
No more kisses or bruises, no more shame or desire
The end stretches to an infinity of uncertainty
In those last few moments, there is a lifetime
To remember each caress and clenched fist
To consider what it would be liked to be locked in a box
Six feet underground, screaming
And those that still chose to jump, to slice,
To dice open their soul to the blank cosmos
They are brave
And in pain
And have been failed
By this world
Because their choice to press delete
To end game. No save. Nothing but blank screen
No credits left to roll over dead body
That choice they make
Is done knowing their souls have already dug their graves
Have already lived in the darkest recesses of night, screaming requiems,
And our split second judgement, our careless comment
(Why didn’t they just ask for help?)
Is a brand that won’t show on the body already burning.


©  Zaynab Asmal


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Matriculant 2013
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On the hopelessness of social conventions ~ Zaynab Asmal

I have broken my bones to fit your spaces
I have walked the hard path worn smooth by the smiling masses
I have been patted on the back by empty words
I have stared into the face of acceptance and spat

Because I’m tired of waiting for someone to ignite me
Tired of hoping someone will see me
Tired of forcing myself to feel for someone
When my mind is focused on other things

I have lived in this brainless slaughterhouse too long
And I have come to love myself too much to stay
where my wings will be butchered for the sake of a sun
And my womb is just another sacrifice
To the shining temple of patriarchy

(It’s strange that the first man to kiss me, to repulse me
Is the first that helped free me)

So maybe I did need that burning touch
That unknowingly helpful hand
Because now I know that nothing more is needed
Just my heart, my head, and all my broken pieces


© Zaynab Asmal


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Matriculant 2013
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My terrorists do not drop bombs ~ Zaynab Asmal

My terrorists do not drop bombs
They are the rapist residing in every strange man’s face
The glances tossed my way as I walk down the street
The idea I guard against when I lock my doors tight
And pray that it’s not me that’s attacked tonight.

My terrorists have no convenient names
Like ISIS or Bin Laden.
They carry ugly hereditary titles:
Poverty, abuse, social decay
And every title is but one branch
On a Lernaean family tree desperate to be pruned.

My terrorists have no real race or identity
No matter what technicolor my TV feeds me
Or what nationalities are spat at
By friends, families, strangers
Who feel safe to speak only in their homes.

America’s terrorists are not my own
Switch off the internal media feed
You’re already surrounded by enemies
And it begins with an ambush inside your head.

(the symptom is not the problem
recognise the crisis
treat the disease)


© Zaynab Asmal


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Matriculant 2013
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