Biography of Irvin Relebogile
Name is I, profession is being a poet, just kidding.
you can call me I though, but as for poetry-it is not a job. Rather it is something I have gladly chosen to love out of my own liking. I was born in a village just outside of Tzaneen. I grew up not loving poetry but somehow life taught me that poetry is your one and only voice in the whole of galaxy......that is the why today I write like I am about to die. poetry is my friend, in whom my consolation and confinement has established a home...I love reading and writing.I will be matriculating in 2016..hopefully, and after that I want to become an accountant.. so I am going to be a poetic accountant (PA) .
Irvin Relebogile's Works:
Irvin Relebogile Poems
Love has no vision Comely bodies don't exist Except for a spiritual mission; Decent souls do persist,
When We Were Black
When we were black We played in the wild And the wild in us stuck
After The Diagnosis
Man was no longer to be human One with inflictions in the upper body Whose soon would be to rearrange The innate system Proving to be in favor of life.
Our Poor Gold Diggers
Poverty has, yet again, striken Their intergrity, It has removed them From their dwellings and o! Thrown them down;
Can I Love, , , ?
I've spent half my Childhood in dedication, , , Attempt to wake your eye To that for you: affection,
It Was All Gone
Our childhood was then gone; Lost to false perceptions, Lost to desires body-born, Devoured by the harsh-
21 Years Of...(To All The Youth)
'Wait till 21, suffer the ungreat for only brief' Endure against-till 21; the heat o'the cold, Let longing an' self-denial come before the grief, Which be, neither of loss nor soonest coaled,
Pray All Ye
Pray all ye, Beast and man of the cursed land, Bear the yoke alongside oh! Thee, B'cause its is light oh! Hand;
Yet I Consider Them Blessed
Yet i consider them blessed: Those who haven't sinned yet bear the suffering of them, They roam the streets;
I Love You
I hate you... If i'd have to Rate my love for you, I'd hail zero's name.
Goodness Within Everyone
Tho' to evil monsters our images do they relate, For as smitten foes of mercy we are fallen victim(s) , To vicious sun rays' rages we are turned dim, To the generosity of heaven-sent
A Dying Man's Song
This here could be my last, With shades by the setting sun- I recall how i wasted my past, My soul departs' and my sight run.
'Tis A Poem Making No Sense
There are songs of joy And there are sounds of sad intentions, Every girl has her own boy Though in many are imperfections.
It Was Just A Dream
I have beheld monsters in my head, With faces normal but behind lay hatred, evil and names of the dead. They chased me with others, We scared and perished with hopelessness.
How could i?
When the white snow
was glad to descend upon me,
I did not love with an innocent charity that chastens the childish.
Rather i thought myself
To know better,
And deemed I
The main matter.