It's A Secret Poem by Thabani Khumalo

I was compelled,
all my life to make a harangue;
a harangue and nothing else in particular detail,
but a concisely put harangue on what other people have done.

Melancholy!
It has always been the predominant disorder of the setting days -
nothing but mere melancholy.
An enturbulated man born into obsolete surliness;
a man misguided into the scorn of extremely vain haughtiness.

Confounding phenomena,
it was as though it was absolutely warranted for me
to always swallow them with a bitter pill of acrid shame.
My soul in the blaze of charred ambers,
squirming like a maggot dropped upon the chaps of the scorch-saturated dwala.

Too long and too sad -
a story I was halted to tell about is too painful to recall,
the story routes too deep into my broken heart.
Leaking - leaking,
optimum life has been freely leaking out through the aperture of my spirit,
painful as a pus-infected wound
locked into my heart - it's a secret.

Time and over again,
I remember the incidents from many years ago;
a young boy of long ago hiding between the hedge and a pile of idle stones,
praying to the high heavens in a true and silent moan -
rolling tears from both eyes meeting at the little chin,
withheld secrets of my heart begin to lay heavy on my mind -
I should work out a resurgence or I shall surely die in vain -
they wear me out like rust does on steel.
Had they all been too close to the fragile heart of mine,
I would have pushed them a little farther out but,
they're locked into my heart - it's a secret.

For long, a tear hasn't fallen on the chest
because the eyes are no longer legible to cry,
yet the heart gushes out volumes of sour tears everyday -
there's bitter regret on every avenue of any counted conclusion.
I desperately long for the eye to cry again
and free my soul from this natural form of a binding bondage
but the tear wells have all run utterly dry -
dry enough to give in and implode.
There's a story that I can't generally bring myself to tell,
it's locked into my heart - it's a secret.

The tutors, they beat us senseless and caused us to lose affinity for school,
they used to teach us a lot about a biblical thing they called faith -
that was also fated to fatally crash against the measured realities.
The innumerable failures breached a belief of hope into our hearts;
a blind agreement between two physical bodies insanely ambulant -
man and the holy ghosts in the a puzzling jungle encounter,
and as we became faithful followers of the hope,
many of our acquaintances began to die at a very young age;
we had only hoped that the days would dawn with a shiny ray of lovely serenity.
I'm still discouraged upon the reminiscene of my whole life;
there's a chain of extending misfortunes into a nebulous history
and that chain cannot be contained unless released at the lock;
they are accumulated troubles that keep growing with age...
A story I longed to but couldn't tell,
it's locked into my heart - it's a secret.