I Sold my Soul
The falling rain symbolised the aching in me. I needed
you as much as I needed air to breath. I watched
a raindrop run down your leg, it's course
diverted by a vein. Everything that I owned
was yours if I could but taste you, feel you.
And then your eyes met mine, you smiled and I
sold you my soul. I remember the sweet masculine
smell of your smooth body. I remember the valleys
and the hills  that had to be crossed  as my  tongue
travelled south from your nipples. I remember tasting
every inch of you and regretting that I could not look
into your eyes at the same time. The chiselled beauty
of your body was intoxicating to me. I drank it all
and became drunk with love and lust, gluttonous with
passion and desire. I could never get enough. Your
eyes were my sun, your lips filled my lungs and my
belly was satisfied by your touch. And then one day
you were gone and so too my soul which I had sold.
A poem by David Vukani Levin
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Something I wrote. Something I have realised.

I care only that I have spent too much of my life with no one at my side to share the sunsets, the starry skies, the turbulent beauty of storm clouds. I wish that I had reached out to people more, instead of retreating inward, I wish that that I had not made my heart into a sheltering closet. I realise that there is less hope of survival alone than with others. I have been acutely aware that terror, betrayal, and cruelty have a human face, but I have not sufficiently appreciated that courage, kindness, and love have human faces as well. Hope is not a cottage industry, it is not a product that I can manufacture, not a substance that I can secrete in my cautious solitude. Hope is to be found in other people, by reaching out, by taking risks, by opening the fortress of my heart.

The thing that I have been most scared of is this thing that I find within myself. I now realise that it is nothing that I should be frightened of. It is the purpose for which we exist. This reckless caring.
                                Extracted and paraphrased from 'Intensity', a book by Dean Koontz
Writings
 Oh my God. Oh almighty God, Creator of the Universe!
I need your help! How long must I be this confused and fumble around in the dark? How long can my heart withstand this onslaught of unhappiness? Will these dark days ever end?

Have I made you so angry that you refuse to help me while confusion and distress surge through my veins?

What must I do?

You may be angry for me asking this question, but surely I have to ask if I do not know. Never be afraid to ask they taught. Do you disagree with this teaching. I need to know. Either way. Tell me what to do or tell me not to ask.... but your silence is excruciating!

                              Written in a very dark period of my life. 1