ARTISTIC TRIBE

The Living Dead What death hath claimed, no mortal hand may slay, For I have dwelt in darkness long before This flesh was bidden to endure the day, And breathe the air my hollow lungs abhor. Mine eyes do open, yet mine eyes are closed, This heart doth beat, though long it ceased to feel, A borrowed life, in counterfeit reposed, A wounded soul concealed behind appeal. For she who bore me weeps not at my grave, And so I wear this flesh as one wears grief — A masquerade, a show that she may save Her tender heart from sorrow's sharp relief. So let no blade, no poison, flame, nor fall Presume to end what Death hath long since called.

A Broken Heart I wake before the sun remembers its duty, With plans folded neatly inside my chest, Skills sharpened like tools in a worker’s box, Yet no door waits for my knock. My hands know labour, My mind knows creation, I have learned, unlearned, relearned— Still, opportunity walks past me As though I am invisible air. Three months stretch like dry seasons, Days counting themselves in silence, Bills whisper louder than prayers, And hope now negotiates with doubt. They say work hard, I did. They say be patient, I am. But patience grows heavy When effort bears no harvest. I am not lazy— Only stranded. Not unskilled— Only unseen. Standing at life’s marketplace With value nobody seems ready to buy. Each rejection writes its name Across my confidence, Until even mirrors begin to ask If diligence is enough. Yet somewhere beneath this tired heart Innovation still breathes— Bruised, yes, But refusing burial. Because I know storms do not ask permission Before they pass, And even...