Burn Out: a rant
By Lebo Mashile
Perhaps I was meant to travel
To live in a world
That no longer has time or dates
To endure an endless train of work days
Cars
Planes
Hotel rooms
Cameras
People
Meetings
Performances
I am not an artist anymore
“The hottest property in spoken word”
Is a lie
I am losing myself
No
This is not about being hot
This is about being true
If I am not true
Then I am not alive
I want to write about how
They will lay the world at your feet
To get you
To sell out your principles
The promise of things is so enticing
Delicious
Exotic
They will offer you the world
If you don’t know what home is
The world is nothing
It is nowhere
They will fool you with colour
With numbers
With shine
They will fool you with security
With your family’s expectations
With the lives and deaths of your heroes
They will fool you into thinking that
Things are a worthy price
For your soul
That the material rise and rise
Is the only way out for black people
It is okay to sleep with old men
To compromise yourself
And where you came from
To erase your past with temporary riches
Women couldn’t vote or own property
You sell yourself as a commodity
This is a poem about false gods
About false promises
Gold in the hand
A continent dispossessed
Gold in the hand
High walls
Gated communities
Gold in the hand
Afraid at every intersection
Gold in the hand
Gold at the poet’s feet
Heaven is at the feet
Of those who usher in the new day
Heaven is at the feet
Of those who know the mother within
Mothers are the pathways to dreams
I live the dreams of my mother
And her mother
And her mother
I wish I could have seen
My mother loved more
Maybe then I would have loved myself better
They will throw the world at your feet
And may you never forget
That the world in you
Is more precious