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“A dance with the clouds. After this dance what next. When charcoal becomes ambers and fire remind us about sweet melodies. When human emotions stop to sing and we marry our sins. A dance in between fences and living inside furnaces. A million stars had dropped, a million moons spurred hope under our broken shadows. I remain here, I remain dancing with the clouds.”
― Tapiwanaishe Pamacheche, Depth of colour

“Mother!
Ripped apart.
Reaped stones of poverty,
weeds that sprouted.
Grown to fast,
crowned young mother.

HIV reaped the harvest of my parents left me with nothing but toddler to take care of.
Robbed my youth and my hey days, left naked among a thousand suns. The splendor, the splendor of pain. My face is beautiful broken pottery,
a poetry art scene.

The screams inside ravage and rammer the very child born along thorns of anguish.”
― Tapiwanaishe Pamacheche, Depth of colour

“My unshaded skin.
Snarled and marked of a scoundrel.
Scorned and conned.
Birds sing in a fair sun,
whistles of seas that used to be foreign.
My unshaven skin,
whispers of owls at night still sing old rivers.
Ribs rubbed and punched still sores.
Mistakes of songs and words that still linger over me.
Marred and murdered death still murmurs.”
― Tapiwanaishe Pamacheche

“Petunias

The mind filled, littered and polluted by black petunias
The horror of the naked decaying sun over our heads
Graves crumbling, hills erecting, mountains sinking
The stinking, smelling melodious melodies

Yarrows growing in my heart
Rage on my body
Anger on my soul
Darkness of all the hate
Manifesting

Xyris the abandoned beauty
Eyes dogged and damned!”
― Tapiwanaishe Pamacheche, Depth of colour

“I WAS ABUSED!
I WAS A VICTIM OF ABUSE. HE SPIT SPUT, DOGGED MY SPINE, DAMAGED MY RIB, PUNCHED MY FACE, RIPPED MY CLOTHES OFF.
MOURNED ON MY BODY,
SQUEEZED MY SKIN, PIMPED AND POUNDED THROUGH IT, CUT MY HYMEN INTO TINY PIECES OF FLESH, GONG GONG THE CATHOLIC BELL.
RUN THROUGH ME, POISED AND MY BACK WAS HIS BRIDGE.
PRUNED MY UNRIPE SKIN, FETISH ON MY SKIN I WAS THERE WATCHING HIM.
SEPARATED FROM MY BODY AND SOUL.
A VINE WITH OUT FLAVOR THAT WHAT HE LEFT.
A VINE WITHOUT TASTE THAT WHAT HE LEFT.”
― Tapiwanaishe Pamacheche, Depth of colour