Category Archives: Poetry

Manufacturing Miracles




When you are a child

You are supposed to be born a miracle

And grow in magic.


You are supposed to be a blessing.

You are supposed to be two hearts’ deepest wish.


You are supposed to be born in love

To love.


You are supposed to be wonder.


My magic was stolen away

Borrowed dreams, broken wand

My miracle was in survival

My blessing squandered in denial

That I didn’t get to enjoy my power.


I wasn’t a blessing but a triumph.

I wasn’t a wish but a conquest.


I was born in desperation

To adore.


The memory of being magic doesn’t disappear

When powerlessness takes its place


Happy endings

I wish.


I manufacture miracles in my mind

I destroy my hope so I can admire how it doesn’t die

I break myself so I can watch myself grow

I hurt myself so I can feel myself heal.


When I was a child

I learned blood magic instead of joycraft

So now when I want to manufacture a miracle

I bleed my mind

And delight in knowing the scars won’t show.


They call my miracle anxiety

But I call it magical.

I call it invisible

I call it

The only power I’ve ever known.




On Being a Happy Person


To be free requires effort. To be happy requires skill.

I am a freedom artist.

I make serenity, passion, pleasure and faith look effortless. It is my daily act, my performance.

If you look closer, you will see that my spirit is bruised and trembles with the strain of holding itself aloft so beautifully in a world of heavy burdens. Misery, regret, fear, turmoil and shame weight me down so mightily, they leave gravity green-eyed.

I am free not like a bird flies but like a ballerina leaps.

When you see my brightness, know that it hides a small universe of shadows that work in dark costumes to arrange the stage of my life so that I may shine shine shine and astound you.

Do not mistake my exertion for a miracle. Do not mistake my lifetime of endless trying for a blessing.

To all those who see me smile and dismiss my joy as naive, my hope as ignorant, my faith as baseless… My darkness is a space deeper and vaster than you can imagine. My shadows could eat you alive. My abyss will gaze into you if you come near enough to see its reflection in my eyes.


To all those who see me rejoice, worship and pray, know this:

My happiness is not an easy thing for me to display. My passion is not effortless. I suffer for my freedom every day. I practice my liberation from my burdens for hours.

I leap for perfection, stroke its fulfilling breadth with a dainty hand then land, heavy-hearted elegance.

Sometimes, I fall. Sometimes, I break.

I wait. I heal. I grieve. I wake. I rise. I toil.

I am late for my let me show you who I am what I can do all I will be.

I run. I run. I run.

I catch up to myself.

I dance again.

Are you awed now? Do you recognize my skills now?

Do you see me?

Come closer. Here are front row seats to my performance of my existence.

Look keenly. You will see me breast the effort of holding my soul so high, it brightens your day and lights up your path (you ingrate). Look at me. You will see my soul’s sweat drip drip drip from my eyelashes.

Am I not brilliant in my craft? Am I not equally magnificent in my exertion to fabricate myself?

I am a freedom artist. I am a manifestor of dreams.

Admire the the fruits of my pleasure, Witness.


You are Oceanic by Tapiwa Mugabe

You are Oceanic by Tapiwa Mugabe

All she wanted was to find a place to stretch her bones.

A place to lengthen her smiles

and spread her hair

a place where her legs could walk without cutting and bruising

a place unchained.

She was born out of ocean breath.

I reminded her;  ‘Stop pouring so much of yourself into hearts that have no room for themselves

do not thin yourself, be vast.

You do not bring the ocean to a river.’

– Tapiwa Mugabe, You are Oceanic


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You are not a hero

If you are

The one who put me in danger.

You’re not my salvation

If you are the reason

I am damned.


Mercy from a tyrant

Is not benevolence

And abstinence

From one with a dead heart

Is not a virtue.


You say you love me

When you harm me

But saying something

Doesn’t make it true.


Make no mistake,

Less cruelty

Is no kindness.

Bring Me Back (My Bike)


Every single time
I walk out and lock my door
Every single time
I chain my bycicle to the floor
I wonder
Who would have ocme in if
I didn’t leave the door locked
I wonder
How far they would have gone if
I didn’t leave my bike locked
Safely away from thieving hands.

There is discomfort in stifling potentials
Like tying ribbons in your hair so that
They can’t float away
Part of the wind and sky
Like they so long to be.

Every single time
I lock a bit of myself away
So that others won’t leave with what’s mine
I wonder
How far along would we be
If I trusted them
And they cared enough for me
To bring what’s me back safely.

The Western Gate


There is, in my core,

a child

who loves and never grows

nestled in the protective purity of

safe darkness

where faith does not permit

monsters enter.


There is, in my core,

an ocean of silent tears

from the child

who is bled and learns

again and again

that monsters

don’t live outside.

Art-Blind and Tone-Deaf


The words I colour are not those

Moving the air with their weight

I see!


But I’m art-blind

Because my uncoordinated hands

Flail inefficiently through space

And I can’t illustrate what is

When I draw you my answers

To your emotions

Through talentless finger paintings.


You are tone-deaf

To my art-blindness

Because the words you counter-sing

To my melodies

Are not answers to what I said

Even though I know you can hear my song.


At least we both have a sense of rhythm.

Our bodies move

To the beat of our frustration

Anger crescendos

And you rise

Patience drops an octave

And I am lowered

This is a dance we know well.


Then the music

Of our panting breaths

Chills each brushstroke

Your skin presses to mine

Then comes to end

Again and again

(Then once more, just because we can).


You teach me;

I learn from you.

Finally, you can listen to me

And sing me serenades in my key

And I see you in technicolour

And can paint you poems in softer hues.



You’re tone-deaf to my art-blindness

But we both know how to dance

And we speak our art through that.

Mayflies to Mountains (Memorial in My Mind)


It’s like a memorial in my mind.

Time has worn away the stone’s face

But the words remain



In layers of rock’s veins

We are mayflies to the mountains.


The sword in the stone was plunged

           (Does the ache linger?)

Then hid from our hundred eyes

           (Has our wound sealed?)


We are mayflies

To those mighty mountains.


Our battles are always lost

Only to begin with every sunrise.

We are dead.

We are born.

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