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The devil’s seed

They call him the son
Of the devil,
Embodiment of evil.
Hell is his playground.

How do they not see?
How do they not see
That he is his father’s
Rage and fists
On his drunken
Man are God
He is his father’s
Life sentence in jail.

He is his mother’s
Screams in the middle
Of the night.
He is his mother’s
Sadness and brokenness.
Her swollen face
Her blood on the wall
He is her last breath

He is the judgemental
And negligent
Community he grew
Up in.

He is the gangster
Who took him under
His wing with promises
Of a better future
And tattoos as
His badge of honour
Drugs fed his soul
The gun his powder.

They say he has no heart
But they forget.
They forget
Who reaped it off
His chest and trampled
On it on the streets
Of the community
That was supposed
To protect him

All he wanted was
To be loved like
Any child.
Instead hate adopted him
When the whole world
Disowned him.
Anger and shame
Became his friends

Look at his eyes.
Don’t you see blood flowing
Like tears?

Listen to his voice.
That voice
That once pleaded
For help instead
It received mockery.

He is not the gun
He carries to terrorise you.
He is the hand that
Was supposed to
Care for him.

He is not the
Devil’s seed.
He is the tree
That you watered.
Now eat the fruit.

Siphiwe Hlongwane enjoyed reading and writing as a teenager. He used to write such good essays at school so much that he became a go to person for his classmates when it came to compositions and essays. His teachers encouraged him to study journalism as a career but his grandmother couldn’t afford the fees. He is now an avid reader of poetry and he uses writing as a form of healing and letting out his deepest thoughts and emotions. He wishes to publish his work one day and teach others to use the power of the pen and paper for self expression.

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