Blessing - the creative

12/ 02/ 2019 - Tuesday The angel of my heart There in her arms lies a golden embrace, One that erases the scars of my falls, And dry my rejection rivers of nature. Her heart is a fountain of solid grace, And my heaven of delight in times of tempest. Her eyes of romance never grow dim, They are light enough to melt my vanity, She has a voice of a calm, refreshing morning breeze, Which deeply blows off the dark snares of mine, And still make my mountains a walk in the park.  She and him, partnered with the creator for my existence, Her ears bear a palace that attend to all my entreaty, She rebukes my filthy traits with a mild rod, In her womb I rested for the entire 9 months, And on her bosom I feasted for the entire childhood. How have I deserved such an angel? With pure eyes of dazzle? Full of innocent touches of polished and smooth soul? Even in grey hair, I still smile tranquil in her arms, She ’s an angel of my heart - one t

Escaping Fire Versus Avoiding Fire The only way to escape the fire of slavery is to go beyond your fears and the jump off the inner limits of your soul. Mind you, we cannot avoid the fire but we can escape it, by our inner zeal to overcome.

Cyclone Idai hijacks our dear fellows, Glorious one -have mercy! Remember Zimbabwe, Remember Mozambique, Remember Malawi - Fill your heart with tears and wail of prayer for them.

Enslaved by money? When you are a slave to money, you cannot taste the succulent taste of true peace.

The plane is here I'm on the edge of flying, It took off, it flew, it's cruising, Can you see it? It's here, it's about to land, Can you feel it? It's melting yet still mild. Witness the color, embrace the texture, applaud the landing. The towers cannot stop it, The winds can't withstand it, it's coming, My wounds are fading, thanks to the pilot, Who can resist it? It's bowing against the speed, I am close, near to grab it, dear to cuddle it. The steams are further than its gleam, I can support my crown, not their dive, The plane is here, knocking at your door, There's no reason to ignore it, it's yours, I choose to polish it's wheels as it lands in my yard.

The root of poverty is failing to discover your wealthy potential hidden within your gift. The result: hopelessness and corruption.

Who said it's over? Who said it's over? When there's sheer grace to dig our glory, When our sight still long to stare our stars, When our days can ressurect above the clouds, Don't say it's over - we can sing again. Who said it's over? When we still own the voice of light, When we can enslave our foes with lack, When victory songs are dancing to our ears, It can't be over - we can breakthrough. Who said it's over? When all we dream of is the waters of honey, When all hope for is a sign of a wander, When our children still applaud our efforts, Did you say it's over? - you're doomed. Who said it's over? When the sun still shines on our skins, When the rain still showers our nudity, When the soil still kisses our hairs, Don't be blind- it's not over!

If the saints did not exist If Saints did not exist, Then our soil would be enslaved to the weeds, Our pregnant clouds would commit suicide, And abandon the seed of elegance within them. Thanks to the saints : rain is married to our garden. If the saints did not exist, Then our sweet aroma would turn sower, The nobody tales of our everybody, Could reap only the deserts of our saliva, One which paint a story of haunted wishes. If the saints did not exist, Our sons will always love to please the sun, Our daughters would be forcefully married to debtors, Our mothers would forever weep their sweat off, And fathers would fail to mine a bread for our breath. If the saints did not exist, Writers won't be able to breathe the story of our times, Cooks would fail to prepare a delectable tomorrow, Pilots won't be able to fly our flags so high. Give applaud to the saints: they are our warriors . By Blessing Mhlanga. 19/ 03/ 2019.

A toxic modernization If you don’t have that thing, I’m afraid vosho is not your fan. If you can’t lit your dreams, Then not even your blesser can make you feel acer. I have come to know that slay queens are pay keys of myth, who are fancy yet too poor to afford a lace.  I prefer a mellow-bone than a yellow-born who is an angel of booze, a god of twerk and a slave of g-string. It’s better to fill up the dome than to feel like a dom kop, whose calibre emerge from ama-wololo.  I’m telling you, not even gobis’qolo, can help you solve the fees must fall movement. Nay’le-walk is only applicable when promoting sex on the beach and french kisses but is not a catalyst to our long walk to freedom. I don’t care about the new kid on the block because chances are he’s already possessed, with glitz and glamour demons of vintage,  which is the only fashion trend, for those who don’t have the ‘it’ thing.  No matter how much you show off your 

            A day In the life of a journalist           ‘ Its not all about glitz and glamour ’ Story by Blessing Mhlanga Being passionate for storytelling is just not enough, there ’s a lot of digging, pruning and polishing that goes into producing a mine-worth piece of story and it’s certainly not all about glitz and glamour. Adele Phiyage, a freelance journalist defines himself as more than a reporter but a businessman in the field of journalism as well as an uncompromising and independent truth teller instead of a story teller.  After he showed his matric flames of excellence with a crown of nine distinctions at New Model high school in Johannesburg in 2010, Adele already knew what he wanted: to be voice of the voiceless in his community and exposing nothing but the truth through journalism.  “I come from a family of creative beings; my father was a professor and my mother was a teacher. So I was always surrounded by literature and a bunch of journals aroun

The tale of Blessing Mhlanga - How he overcame the odds! I greet you all in the Shalom of the Almighty God I am the son of the owner of the universe, whose ownership is priceless in the world of clueless touch and whose pure love for me is greater than the filthiness of my being. Beyond my understanding, he conceived me with his breath and that was the beginning of my story.  I ’m no longer a slave to myself because I’m yoked to him: the master of the universe.  At first, I never understood my experiences while growing up but I did understand that I was never destined to be stuck and grow extinct in it - the pit of poverty. Waking up early in the morning to randomly tour the forest in search for dry wood to cook a decent meal for my tummy to entertain, walking a shameful distance at night at my mother’s friend house to ask for some mealies meal or some cabbage to avoid the nightmare of sleeping on an empty stomach; begging and lack had become the culture of existen

The smoke of deception Where there's smoke, there's fire. Fighting the smoke is boxing shadows, the fire is stalking our yard and sooner, it will lit up the house.

Gone is my love Should I recall our days of delight, My eyes turn blood-red and my heart begin to blink our moments of roses. My skin shiver in cold as all I have is the stamp of your lipstick. My blood runs swiftly ahead of time trying to bring back your glow. But I stand in hold of the pillow of our first love. Gone is the tale that torments my mind. I can’t bring you back to my arms, Neither can I make your skin cling to mine. But forget you not, that my souls still long to kiss the bliss of your smile. I can only pray to behold your feel in the next world. Gone is the golden heaven that only you brought unto me. My tears flood as I gaze this love you painted in my heart, And the us-world has dissolved with mother-yesterday. Mercy-fall, Can the breath of our romance resurrect? Time has become a toxic mountain between thus. Gone is the palace of tranquil that we built so dearly, Hoping to shelter our rainbow of glittering embrace, Yet