Phetogo ya Psyche

Boroko

Geranimo — I am no Geranimo, So this metaphysical prison Is not going away On its own. The current on the surface May be running fast, But deep inside, it is still — Watching my own ebb and flow, Wondering how long it will last For me to realize That I am patient... With me. Watching and waiting For my own healing spirit To talk to me. It’s a duality for sure, To be studied By those who could judge Everything I have stood for. But maybe It’s just a time Where the current people of the world Listen... To their voices within, And still themselves, Their choices... Because The Creator Does not make the mistakes That a fast currency Tries to satisfy — And their hearts Are missing in this world Of chaos. A running flow can Only create Voice... Hearing... Being... Action in still energy — Is a stillness In action. And the world within Can still this world — And no one Will be left Without.

Boroko

Now I watch you in my minds eye Searching for the next thing To grow that heart of yours Unconsciously When I was consciously next to you Waiting for your eyes to open Hiding changes from who we love Just a death warrant For this beautiful hearts of ours So when you said goodbye Sorry if I didn't cry I already saw it in your eye Long long time ago How many have seen me this way The way I saw you I failed the integrity test Over and over again Now I am just begging to be blessed By your blues, no refrain Hiding changes from who we love Just a death warrant For this beautiful hearts of ours So when you said goodbye Sorry if I didn't cry I already saw it in your eye Long long time ago In the mirror Touch my finger I will see you Hold my body I will understand Touch my heart I will believe in you And when I feel what is written in your heart I will forgive you People like me Heal others But are never healed It is our cross To carry Through this desert Camels to the poor Who are separated From their hearts Their minds searching Outside For what is lying Within

Boroko

My soul ice skates This world — Small efforts, Gliding across the lake, Frozen impacts, So much hiding below. Stretch me, soul of mine — Wind across my cheeks, Soul gliding, guiding, Showing the freedom Of this world. I put one foot forward, And so much is left behind. Tell me, Sliding, guiding man — Why is it so easy for you? Your freedom — Just a glimpse Of the world You want for me. But I wake up tomorrow — My feet are heavy. It's too dangerous. I am scared To walk across your lake. Your skates Are nowhere to be found. Thank you for showing me Just who you believe I cannot be.

Boroko

Energies of youth surround me now — unavoidable in my sequence of years. All the changes in me witnessed only by the outside eye — time, the slow thief. Yet I watch the current youth with wonder. Their blind confidence — unabridged, unbounded, unrestrained. Startling. A triumph. For their freedom is the silent victory of all the struggles that came before. The human psyche is not a solitary flame — it is a collective vibration. In the first breath of the newborn echoes every hardship, heartbreak, and hope of our forebears. The famine survivor, the trench soldier, the mother burying sons. All their lessons pressed into the marrow, coded into DNA — so the child need not repeat it all. This is the design — that pain paid for freedom, fear forged trust, war birthed peace. So that today's children may rise with unstructured creativity — the wild, innocent instinct of the first breath — unchained. It is the triumph of the trenches that a child may paint instead of fight. It is the victory of the widow's tears that a young girl may dance, unafraid. Yet look around: who guards this fragile inheritance? The leaders of today — mostly grey and crowned by decades: Biden, 80. Trump, 78. Putin, 72. Xi Jinping, 72. They cling to power not as guardians of free thought, but as wardens of old illusions. They stand at the gates of the young mind — labelling fresh questions as threats, not as the promised spark of evolution. And what of those who break through? Ibrahim Traoré of Burkina Faso — under 40 — a living question to the old order. Does the world trust the young to lead yet? Or does it fear the very freedom it once fought to secure? Bad parenting, blind leadership — these are the cracks where momentum leaks away. When the old ones resent the fire in young hearts, they repeat the very chains they once broke. The lesson is simple: pass on the wisdom, but not the wound. Pass on the imprint, but not the cage. Let the first breath be as the Creator intended — an echo of all that came before, but untethered — free to birth something new. If our leaders cannot honour this, if they stifle the unstructured creativity that is the triumph of generations past, then they have betrayed the very dream they inherited. The question is alive in every child's breath — and the answer lives in what we dare allow them to become.

Boroko

Uncalibrated growth junkies finding my attention, using plants to replace the hard steps of understanding. Practice and ritual to glimpse a new world—an open, unhinged absorption, unearned, in the face of bullets fired by unconscious minds placed in my path by meaning itself. Glimpses of an uncommon world, transported briefly—space travel in the swallow of a moment, eager, at least. I was transfixed—only for a moment—watching their vibrations disintegrate into an amplified need to take the steps I fought so hard to understand. No choice. A triumph without reflection, without badge. Just a simple purpose: to understand. I left the ground long ago. No tents required. No pegs in the earth to measure the height of my flight. The balloon of perception departed the physical universe at a young age. Now I live simply, inside the world— on the inner side of the mirror of my once-reflected self, watching my own struggles reflected back at me.

Boroko

Is pain the cleanest energy? A hidden well in the secret chamber of the human heart — untouched, a reservoir for solitude, a font of definition, character, and quiet expression. I found a boy there tonight — waiting for me. Quiet and alone, arms outstretched like they've been all these years while I built new masks to protect him. I sabotaged closeness — pushed people away — so the boy could stay safe in the dark. Yet vulnerability, the very thing I feared, was always the gateway to our atonement. When pain spoke, we didn't need words — the man and the boy, one light in the dark place — atoned. But it is not only my hidden child who waits. The human psyche is a collective chamber — we are all born carrying the echoes of those who came before. Every child's first breath draws in the agony of trenches, the wisdom of widows, the chains and the prayers and the final sighs of the forebears who dared to imagine freedom. This is the design: pain paid for freedom, fear forged trust, war birthed peace. So the new child need not repeat the same wounds — they rise instead on the momentum of the collective breath. This is why the youth stand radiant now — blind confidence, unstructured creativity — startling to behold. It is not naïveté — it is the triumph of all who fought and bled and buried to buy this birthright. Yet look at the gates they must pass through: Leaders clinging to a dying world — Biden, 80. Trump, 78. Putin, 72. Xi, 72. Mouths moving in old rhythms, hands gripping power to the grave. Will these men — grey and crowned by the past — lead free thought into the light? Or will they choke it to feed the ghosts of their own youth, never reclaimed? Once, they too were boys with outstretched arms. But somewhere, they hid that child away — traded the well of pain for a throne of fear. And now they guard the gates with envy, silencing the unstructured spark that could redeem us all. Yet sometimes, a fracture appears — a leader young enough to remember his hidden child: Ibrahim Traoré — under 40 — a question flung at the old order. Can we trust the young to lead? Or does the world still fear its own healing? The lesson is simple: pass on the wisdom, but not the wound. Atonement is not only for one man in a dark room — it is for humankind in its first breath. If we do not reclaim the hidden child within, we repeat the same chains we claim to have broken. Let the old ones open the gates. Let them stand aside — not as wardens but as stewards of free thought. Let the boy meet the man. Let the child meet the elder. Let the breath be clean — the well untouched yet drawn. Let us be atoned, whole — not only alone in the secret chamber — but together, across generations. Only then is the struggle of our ancestors honoured. Only then is the first breath true. Only then is humankind worthy of its freedom.

Boroko

I am spending time In my own original house — Falling in love again With its energies, The memories of my children Growing up here. I miss the sound of their chatter, Their laughter echoing off these walls. The cricket balls in the net — Driven by my beautiful son. My lovely daughter's lilting voice — A melody that spoke Directly into my heart. The stillness of this place Moves me gently Into realms I reserve For the sanctuary Of my intellectual refuge. Every brick, Every coat of paint — Chosen by my hands. Every adjustment, Every renovation, An expression Of my passion. I know now That staying away for three months Was the silent cutting Of an invisible tie — Perhaps letting go Of the darker memories, The unwelcome energies My open-minded acceptance once invited in. This place — And my countenance — Became a refuge For shadows I did not see. Truly alone now — In this instant — No need pressing me To be accepted by the world. No reason for contact, Other than the business Of financial existence, The quiet correction Of errors I have made. Spiritual ice skates — Effortless motion. Unburdening the past. Perhaps dying a few deaths As I unseat my own prejudice, Wash away the imprint Of others. Speeding through The narrow perceptions Of so-called friends — Who saw me as a man, Not a spirit. I created them all — Through my ego's benevolence, Through the resonance Of theirs. I accept this now — See my past Through a gifted rear-view mirror, A lens of truth, Hard won. I absorb the self-loathing, The disgust At things I did selfishly — Searching for those rare moments When I acted in honesty, In purity, Without gain in mind. I join these scattered dots, Raising the ship That should have sailed — But somehow Stayed submerged Until now. Spiritual ice skates — A gift I earned, Or was given By circumstance, Or by how I stood In the face of my adversity, My aberrations. The ability to glide Over my past — To see myself In a light I wish I'd had At the time. Suppose it's just a journey — An ordinary, broken soul, An old man Growing up At last.

Boroko

I walked around this planet For more than sixty years. At first, it was like reading a book For the first time — Exciting. Pages alive with ink and promise, Intriguing new moments, Step by step, Word by word. Now I drift through these chapters — Random pages flick open, Past replaying itself In the quiet theatre of my mind. But now — I know who I am. I see my internal changes In the difference between then and now — How I act, How I stand, How I breathe the same air, But turn it into new meanings. I watch the impacts — Outcomes shaped in shadows, New directions rising From old crossroads. I relive these moments — But from a different star, A wider orbit, A clearer sky. So much the same — So very different. I was running blind once — Now I run free. Same ground. But my feet know where to land. It's the changes — So gradual, So sudden — The inner shifts That turn our pain Into past tense. Changing — We are — Always. I stopped the world For the first time. Watched the unconscious procession, Hurtling past in its vortex of despair — A cosmic kaleidoscope, Swirling, twirling, Patterns dancing meaning, Losing meaning — Searching for something solid, A promise, A safe place to rest. While the pace of change Eludes us all. Is it pity — or pain — That I feel? Knowing I was once there — Lost in the swirl — Or knowing I can't help These restless trailblazers Stop the world, Listen, Stand still, See. I know — In some future I will look back at this moment, And its particular folly Will glow obvious, Small, Almost kind. Yet now — It feels real. Necessary. Mine. Relevance — Time to get there. Trust the immediate frontiers. Work the edge. Press my hands Against the thin membrane That holds me from The next revelation — The next breath — The next truth The Creator has for me. And I walk on. Sure-footed. Changing. Always.

Boroko

People are scared to be one with the Creator's force, thinking they will lose their individuality— their sense of character. Character? Yet it is their identity that the Creator is excited to see in its entirety. Allowing the energy wind into your heart will be your own signature— each of us so capable to be different. The Creator does not repeat Himself— it is impossible, the way this force splinters into countless energies. It's the denying of the soft, touching, nurturing internal voice that makes us all look and sound the same. Yet somehow, we find comfort there— being reliant on advice and direction, believing we are not already alone and sufficient, but instead lonely and dependent. If there are as many pathways to the Creator as there are bodies on the earth, why would we need direction, or a physical church, or another outside voice— other than those teaching us how to listen to that soft, unimposing voice inside ourselves, that speaks. When we stop being Someone else?

Boroko

What is an arc— is it a wooden ship standing on dry land, waiting for a flood of water? Or was the flood always awareness, rising slowly, driven now by the sudden availability of knowing— threads of knowledge crossing the world in seconds? Why the metaphor? Was it symbol, or was it reality then— because reality itself could only be spoken that way? Our new arc is not timbered. It does not float on seas. It rises in the chest. It is our hearts and our awareness vibrating— not separately, but all at once. No one is chosen. Only choice exists. Not allegiance to words in a manuscript, but recognition of essence— that quiet voice inside the heart whose intensity increases when we stop running from it. This arc does not call us to arms. It calls us to understanding. To become the humanity we were designed to be. There is no devil waiting in the dark— only the moment where we decide how to meet what is here.

Boroko

We built our faith in towers of stone, Names on walls, thrones over bones, Outside voices telling us who we are, Measuring souls by a borrowed yard. But something stirs when the noise grows thin, A quieter breath from deep within, Not a doctrine handed down in fear, Just a pulse that says you belong here. If belief lives only outside the skin, It forgets the truth we're breathing in. The measure is the heart, not the colour you wear, Not the borders they drew, not the weight of their stare. We breathe the same breath, we rise and we fall, No soul born smaller, no mind born small. The measure is the heart — let the old lies part, We are more than the cages they built at the start. There's a young man standing at three years old, Learning a lesson no child should hold, That the skin he's in is marked as less, Before he can write, before he can bless. But his mind runs wide, his spirit sharp, IQ, EQ — a blazing spark, Still he carries a weight not of his design, Waiting for respect to cross the line. What kind of world teaches shame so soon, Then asks for peace beneath the moon? The measure is the heart, not the colour you wear, Not the stories they sell, not the damage they share. We breathe the same breath, we rise and we fall, No soul born smaller, no mind born small. The measure is the heart — let the old lies part, We are more than the cages they built at the start. This is not a call to raise a fist, Not a war of names, not a list, It's a turning inward, a steady stance, A collective breath, a second chance. When belief comes home from the outside throne, No child stands alone, no mind unknown. He walks with restraint the world never learned, With patience forged where anger burned, Knowing brilliance doesn't need a crown, But still feels the ceiling pressing down. And we — we share the blame if we stay asleep, While brilliance waits for permission to speak. The measure is the heart, not the colour you wear, Not the myths of power, not inherited fear. We breathe the same breath, we rise and we fall, No soul born smaller, no mind born small. The measure is the heart — let the old lies end, This is how the broken world begins to mend. No saviours, no chosen, no holy divide, Just humanity learning to stand side by side. If belief must live, let it start where we are — In the breath we share, In the heart.

Boroko

It's been a journey to get here — Abundant I W, abundant energies bleeding fiercely into an EQ trajectory, converging into this first step of human consciousness. Experiences from an early age catapulted me beyond ordinary awareness, splitting the self into many voices — in harmony… yet sometimes singular, resident, alone. The motivation for singularity — whether threat in the physical or mental plane, or the challenge of obscurities born from wounded memory — resonance ignites. It kick-starts survival. Sometimes consciousness is trumped by resonance, regardless of growth. Life has a way of testing your acceptance of change. I passed — then failed. Repeatedly. Is there a graduation? Or does something have to die? My body? My worldly attachments — breath, touch, warmth, sight, sound? Or my innate fear of acknowledging I am different? Perhaps my foolish path is simply this: to guide the unconscious. Arrogance is not for me.

Boroko

I was climbing every mountain Built from borrowed truth Chasing every answer Trying to find my proof Read it in the pages Heard it in the crowd Searching for the signal Lost inside the loud I thought the light was distant Somewhere up above But it was in the silence I was running from It was already within Already alive From the dust of the pavement To the edge of the sky You don't have to earn it You don't have to win The door's been open It was always within Already within Already inside From the depths of survival To the highest mind Challenge your station Let the old walls fall The truth's not above you — It's been there through it all From the bottom of existence Fighting just to breathe To the heights of understanding Where the thinkers weave Every level matters Every fear and scar Every broken question Shows you who you are When the mind gets heavy Lay it on the ground There's a deeper rhythm Underneath the sound It was already within Already alive From the dust of the pavement To the edge of the sky You don't have to earn it You don't have to win The door's been open It was always within You can rise from the gutter You can rise from the throne You can challenge the story You were handed and owned You are more than your struggle More than fear, more than skin The frontier is waiting — Turn and listen within Not wasted — awakened Not broken — begun The war in your head Was never the one It's already within Already bright From the first breath you took To your last breath of light Stand up from the bottom Reach higher than you've been You were never behind — It was always within

Boroko

Surface membranes— Giving rise to thought, As my soul bounces Across this impermanent world. Am I lucky To glimpse A moment's picture Inside your heart? The stone of my inquiry Released with the dedication Of innocent perception— Skipping past Prejudice, malice, And misguided presence. Reaching out Across still waters, Until it finally Bounces Into the sea.

Boroko

About life and how it revolves around love. Just a teenager, it made a great impression on me — set me up with a purpose, and sadly, an expectation. Experienced first love — all the pleasure of the body, the oneness and the big plans that teenagers delve into. Young and free, hearts bounding through unspoken boundaries, like puppies in a spring field, butterflies inside and out. Everything the books wrote about — joy of resonance, mutual appreciation, acceptance, physical expression and reciprocity. Bright eyes and electric touches, everyone blushing just watching. Expectations landing on the slippery shores of truth. Only changes come — winds of all the negative forces that act on the bright unprotected — love beaming its attraction to all, unconsciously believing in all the great authors' promises. One by one, the dreams crushed — girl after girl, faithful to the better man, and there is always a better man wherever you go. Man after man, faithful to the sexier image, and there's always a sexier girl wherever you go. That overcoming feeling of first love, replaced by pain, hate, and fear — walking gingerly into the next relationship, aware, scared, and unable to love with an open heart. Cycles repeating — So Thomas, Jane, William, Robert, DH... What say ye now? Where's the consistency? Where's the belief? And most importantly — Why did you not speak to me Of the growth behind the passion, Following so closely Like a shadow without a purpose, Waiting for me to fall?

Boroko

Thousands of petals— a flower called the heart. Each petal a reflection, each one a feeling, born with you from the start. The steps to understanding are never a straight line— but circles, winding pathways, each journey unique. Finding light within darkness, and darkness within light. Millions of chords, when touched together, resonate in sequence— trumpets sounding to manifest the truth that dwells inside. Reflections in the eyes— mirrors to the soul within, blended destinies meeting, if only briefly, imprints of understanding, doorways to new dimensions, trampled lightly.

Boroko

It takes a strong man To admit he is broken. The weak man Runs from his pain, Throws it onto others— Resonating through their paths. Every gesture amplified— A simple touch electrified, A look, a smile, an invitation— Meanings impossible to ignore. Simple beings we are, Yet so complex— And still, we ignore it all. Standing still In the river of love, Watching people waste their lives— Like me— Acting outside their hearts. Honesty becomes a distant memory, Truth hidden Beneath the rocks at our feet. Now we stand on the banks, Watching ourselves Deflect the river of love Coming at us relentlessly. The Creator's promise ignored— We'd rather be stuck inside, Worshipping images Constructed by impressions On our hearts From the outside. Every dam wall holds silt inside— A testament to all we cling to, A badge of ego, A hold on life— Stuck in the mud— While love flows over the wall, Carrying those who accept it To their destiny.

Boroko

How many people have walked this physical plane and shifted the trajectory of human awareness? And what is humanity? A spectrum. Selfishness and selflessness. Indifference and love. Truth and deceit. Greed and generosity. All existing in the same breath. This is not judgement. Not naming. Not blaming. History simply offers reference points in the long unfolding of consciousness. Einstein. Newton. Da Vinci. Mandela. Martin Luther King. Buddha. Gandhi. And others whose names were never written. Some brought light. Some brought darkness. Yet all of them shifted the river of human awareness. Each life exists on a fragile horizon. A brief moment on a plane of relativity and impermanence. A rich man’s son loses everything. A preacher’s son sins in silence. The psychologist’s daughter cannot escape her own mind. The cobbler’s children wear worn shoes. The universe turns on paradox. Hot and cold. Darkness and light. Good and cruelty breathing side by side. How do we love without reference? How do we choose to build instead of destroy? So this is not judgement. It is a quiet call to the benign and the aware. When you take your final step on this planet what part of you will remain? Will you help those who come after you to be kinder? To be braver? To understand the fragile beauty of their time here? Will your life leave a footprint in the soil of humanity deeper and stronger than your own? One life. One crossing of this fragile world. Leave something behind. Leave a footprint.

Boroko

[Verse 1] Light, life, flight Been a while since I flew In these man-made wings Breaking through We touch the sky But I wonder why Are we living now Or just passing by [Pre-Chorus] We go faster We go far But do we know Who we are [Chorus] Are we running Or becoming Are we surviving Or arriving Mist ahead No promise where it ends Step beyond Where the unknown begins The membrane wears thin tonight Between the dark and the light [Verse 2] Voices speak Through the mind Open doors Out of time Spaces once Out of reach Now in our hands But what do they teach [Pre-Chorus] What’s behind What’s ahead Are we awake Or misled [Chorus] Are we running Or becoming Are we surviving Or arriving Mist ahead No promise where it ends Step beyond Where the unknown begins The membrane wears thin tonight Between the dark and the light [Bridge] Astral drift Feel it rise Past behind In disguise Falling stars Guide the way Night unfolds Into day [Break] Death makes space For the new Every end Breaking through [Final Chorus] We are running We’re becoming We’re surviving We’re arriving Through the mist Still we go Every step We don’t know The membrane wears thin tonight And the other side burns bright [Outro] Light… life… flight We remember How to fly

Boroko

If we arrive on this earth with nothing to learn are we drifting or understanding Are we permanent or fading away do we fight the current or bend to the wave Chorus (lift) We are moving through an unseen wind seeking meaning or surrendering No possession no claim to time we arrive just in time Verse Young minds walking a karmic line feeling indifference and something divine A love beyond what physics can hold a truth that lives but can’t be told Bridge (drop) Step into danger just because step away when the world applauds This is human this is flame envy dancing without a name Outro Like a leaf on a river wide no resistance just the tide No gain no design Just arrive in time

Boroko

There is a space in our existence where we can exist— not as roles, not as names, but as awareness resting inside itself. It takes a different energy to let go of the self, the past, its intrinsic boundaries and inherited limitations— to float above them and allow the heart to receive the Creator's intention, and its meaning for the collective. This is the practice of denied gratification, of de-identifying from the many voices— and choosing which one receives our attention. It is a high without an ingested substance. An acceptance of our place in the universal fabric. A sense of belonging without another human voice or touch— just a quiet confidence that pervades our demeanour, lightening our steps as we move— simply, often misunderstood— toward our Creator. His beckoning voice amplified through denial. His regard and reward— a prism in the eye, deflecting detraction, rewarding resonance, automatically absorbed in His instance within us all— our heart centres. Perhaps language itself was only given to us to magnify importance. Yet voices became tools of the mind— twisted to serve antipathy to their original meaning. What was born to teach, to nurture, to embody selfless love was bent— through aberration— and manifested as power, as control, as a direct challenge to love itself.

Boroko

Birds in the trees — singing their song for me. No expense — Bob was right: freedom of flight, freedom in song, love tucked in tiny hearts, instinct — always, always prevails. Coloured crests, different beaks — watching me while I watch them. Different colours, different wings, and the eagle — wow, man — he's weighing me up, asking: Who would you be… if you had feathers? Who would you be in a bird's body? Short life, maybe — but no stress, food everywhere, sky for a roof, branches for a bed, taking each moment right in the eye, chirping happiness with no agenda. So I do it — I slip inside the small bird, leave my reactions behind, fly in the eye of the bird, feel its heartbeat — so fast, so simple, so small. Glide — easy effort, wind slipping over natural wings, instinct steering everything. Wow. Like swimming downstream, no resistance, just being, just bird.

Boroko

Is there a distance between hope and faith? Is there a baton to be passed on the graduation from one to the other? Or is one simply the other in disguise? See the young — confident hearts, lights of hope in the top-left corners of their eyes. Life a stream of new beginnings, experiences and treasure still unfolding. See the older — steady gaze, wrinkled frown. Has hope abandoned them? Or has it been replaced by knowledge, and faith thinned by memory? Is this the human highway — where hope becomes expectation of what can happen, then replaced by knowledge of what has happened, until even intention is subdued? And in all of this — where is faith, and intention, and the quiet confidence of belief that I am destined to be who I am? Without the imposter of my past pulling me toward stagnation, without the fear of repeating my inheritance. While the future flies past like the windows of a jet plane. Faith, hope, and fear — our integrated contest. A challenge between aberration and the natural heart. A discordant expression, either cementing or exposing the extinguished light of hope, and the missing possibility of faith. Until — a conversion of hope into creation, acceptance, and the expanded light of allowance. All of it living quietly in the corners of our eyes.