Kwaicore Greeted Her Like an Old Friend.

She has known pain in abundance,
haunted thoughts as a child.
The near-constant presence of evil,
ever since she had felt the touch of awful naked men.
Battles addiction and depression,
and suicidal thoughts.
Her arms remember razor blades.
Fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds.

She feels trapped.
Two sets of "friends" with opposing ideas.
Everyone sleeps.
The sun rises.
She drinks long from a bottle of liquor,
takes a blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom.
She cuts herself.
Using the blade to carve
"Useless" large across her right forearm.

Kwaicore speaks a language only feelings understand. A language doctors and psychologists were never taught, sometimes it's what we need to hear when no one else will listen. It might not be a lot, but it's something for someone who feels like nothing.

Kwaicore: The cheapest Antidepressant yet.

Stress Relief...

A hitchhiker asks for a lift, an attractive young girl. You decide to take her. During the journey she suddenly passes out in your car, in a panic you rush her to the hospital.

That is stressful.

It is discovered that she is pregnant, they congratulate you on being a father. You explain the story and that it's not your baby, but she denies and says that it is.

This is getting very stressful.

You demand a DNA test to prove that you are not the father.
When the test results return, the doctor explains that you are infertile and have possibly been since birth.

This leaves you extremely stressed, but relieved.

While driving home, the thought of your 3 children pops into your head...

NOW THAT IS STRESS!

Music let's us express ourselves, it helps us deal with anger and other emotions. It is a best friend that is always there to comfort you. It sets moods, fuels imaginations and caters to one's feelings. When you're angry, the music will be angry. When you're sad, the sounds will be blue. When you're happy, the music will be joyful. It's therapeutic.

Kwaicore, harmless therapy at no cost.

The Diagnosis of Kwaicore.

(Picture via: http://www.bakedribs.tumblr.com)

We have been labeled as strange,

We have been told we’re outcasts.

We laugh away the pain,

And cry among the funny.

We eat our peas with syrup,

Marinade spaghetti in chocolate sauce.

We are the delayed premature births,

The flies that make honey.

We are a pack of lone wolves,

The straight faced orgasms.

The loyalty in Judas,

The celibate prostitutes.

Kwaicore is our anthem.

Do not fear our presence,

But welcome our embrace.

The Skin of Kwaicore.

Spotti – a symbol from the Kwaito universe,

It covers a inked skin head.

Spikey metal protrudes from the

Canvas All-stars roaming the streets of Gauteng.

Mascara outlines eyes that gaze

Upon streets soaked in African culture.

Glamorous gold rests on the chest

Covered in emo leather.

Loud shirts and checked pants,

Tracksuits and skinny jeans.

Hardcore style mixed in with

Kwaito swagger.

It’s more than music, it’s a way of life. 

The Aftermath of Kwaicore

I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak,

and then suck other genres from my mouth so they never come up in conversation.

Honestly, I’ve never known love; 

in fact every time I think about other sounds, 

my brain cramps just to show me how painful life can be without you.

I’ve heard that true love is blind, so I read all your lyrics in braille.

I never finish reading, because real love is endless.

I’m  stunned at how you have the audacity to be beautiful, 

even on days when everything around you is ugly. 

Your eyelashes are violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink.

I see your face in every treble and bass cleft, 

hoping that you would jump out and be closer to me.

You massage my skin until my mouth sings songs my brain doesn’t know the words to, 

I want to drink the bass line of your chorus.

The vibration of your voice climbs into my ribcage like monkey bars, 

I want to sample your smile and let my heartbeat do the bass line. 

We could create the greatest love song of all time; 

and when they ask what Kwaicore really is, 

I’ll say: “She is my musician and me… I’m her favourite song.”

What Kwaicore does to me.

(Picture via:http://www.bakedribs.tumblr.com)

The shredded arpeggios guide my All-Stars. The raw sound of the lead guitar infiltrates my skin, it vibrates the hair on my arm to stand at attention. I inhale death growls, and exhale African rhythm. 

The combination of the fast paced treble cleft mixed in with a slowed down bass melody, the taste of Jozi flavoured townships in a mouth filled with metal. My brain traces pantsula steps on the inside of my skull, a mosh pit is created on the ground floor of my mind.

Two completely different worlds, yet so similar. Both seen as rebels, the skinny jeans belonging to Kwaito fits the waist of Hardcore Punk perfectly. The rubber toe canvas match our feet perfectly, we divert from the regular. Kwaicore makes us one, we are supreme beings.