Identity crisis

Tablighi bin Bomber

I,

In a bombshell, are an insecurity for my identity.
I,
In my thawb appear to be strapped with hand made explosives
I,
"In my beard," hide knives to stab my enemy
I,
Adopted a name that sparks fear and makes them pensive.
I,
Have witnessed name turn from identity to criminality.
I,
Can testify that image is a fallacy to what is me.
I,
Plea guilty of expressing self in a manner mistaken as "societal identity"
I,
Am ruh and not the embodiment of that which they see.
I,
Sadly can not reveal soul to man...

Rich bin poor.

I,
In a bungalow am a king with a crown made of quills like a quail.
I,
In knitted cloth am a poor man slim fitted among the rich.
I,
Am painted rich as the malted lager named ales,
I,
Am a king on a chess board being pushed by my subjects to reach.
I,
On a thin line am a poor man living on the edge of a cliff
I,
In reality am an heir to an illusion of wealth,
I,
Painted as ale are drunk as hell with joy for appearing to be a rich motif,
I,
Am edgy as I take advantage of this wealth in stealth,
I,
gladly will not reveal soul to man.

Waste man bin Rasta.

I,
Laced with nutty dread ina me head are dreadful
I,
With dirt brown dread are "dirty" yet merely quirky!
I,
Smoking spilff are therefore thief yet not a grief tool
I,
Won't cut mi hair therefore rebellious and naughty..
I,
Sing a sweet song fi di herb of peace called chalice.
I,
Therefore praise and worship the highest grade
I,
Know king selassie as they know Jesus down in Venice
I,
Like the Tablighi keep me dread fi di rastafarai movement and trade
I,
Relentlessly serve me soul with serenity.

Harlot bint Hawa.
I,
Gave into sin to feed my yarning empty tummy
I,
Do not deceive with false identity to try to achieve
I,
In high slit on night shift are dressed to tempt thee
I,
Am prey to temptation of the apple(sweet life) like my mother Eve
I,
Left torn down house to work till dawn to give my kids a home.
I,
Am a skimpy skirt; seductive, naughty, and straight to the point.
I,
Aid false needs of those with greed that call me a whore.
I,
Am a trader as if a seller of pork at a pork joint...
I,
Verily seek peace for my heart and soul.


We are who we are, what they say we are, and what we think we are.

Guilts Sanction Gaveled

Guilt's Sanction Gavel'ed

Beneath guilt-

lies a glow of purity;

wrapped in kilt.

Easy to unravel;

ayeh, hard to suction-

out like gravel.

I chose to trek-

the loners path,

within me woke-

desire inquiring,

if thy kingdom;

barricades firing.

So desire the enemy,

friendly fired,

and killed humility.

Resurrecting guilt;

the sanity in me-

which had been built;

To take me home-

where I belong,

in Purity's dome;

ayeh, it's too late,

at sacredness' cost-

The apple I ate

Rots in tragedy's fate,

and I await sanction...

Nine to five.

Nine to five, nine to five,

my prescription to live and stay alive,

Yet I work for everybody else but me!
My lady at home won't let me be,
the kids desire for money grows everyday-
wild like ludicrous bills and fees to pay.
Boss demands overtime on charity basis,
my businesses have illnesses of no thesis-
selfishly taking without return of profit,
like mother's illness soaring like a rocket,
and I can not throw a fit, I have to be a man,
toil with hand for a feat sans grand plan.
yet time my enemy is steadfast against me.

Nine to five, nine to five-
the only way we're taught to survive,

It must be 'cause love she is so expensive,
priceless thus costly making us defensive,
guarding our hearts from failed dreams,
acting in jobs we'd rather leave like steam,
we fail to achieve so resolve to quick means,
to get material things to fill the gaps within,
yet skinny jeans can't feed the heart's need;
impossible! And so we feed on greed,
Hell bent on excellence of currency,
cocooned in illusion so truth we cannot see-
yet love in-time can give us all we desire...

After working from dawn,
past the mid-sun at noon,
till the dim light of moon,

I try to rest at night but can barely sleep,
sold my heart and in it love is sound asleep.
I drove with desire and gave birth to liars,
started it all they shouldn't burn in the fire.
Fell for conspicuous wants veiled as needs,
satan tempted and I fast as steed agreed,
to toil for a man yet we can work together.
So now I engineer his dreams like a beaver,
and envy his life built from my sweat,
as love sails far afloat with the lot I dreamt-
yet tick-tock as in contract death knocks.

Where'd I go wrong?

I seek my missing rib, 

to piece the peace within, 

that broke and chose to jib,

when fear cobwebbed pristine.

 where'd we go wrong?

I know you fear spiders 

but never did I creep,

slyly through cracks to seek- 

black widows to bring fear;

henceforth, making you tear.

You were afraid to love, 

said you needed gloves,

'cause you didn't trust "whores-" 

that chased me from before

seeking my tender rib, 

That had heard I was sweet, 

and longed to have a taste

of what I served in sheets.

Is this what made you weak, 

then give into defeat?

yet all I am is meek, 

And such an act of greed- 

I'd never want to seed.

Have I not plead guilty

of needing you daily?

For you were first like eve;

to-bring-me to-my-knees. 

Ayeh you decided- 

to damage rosy love,

and turn it into a; 

Roman Colosseum, 

before we'd even mate

and sumo fight in bed.

Those lonely black widows,

were not enough reason,

for our change in season. 

To testify with plea, 

their sting would be my death. 

So where did I go wrong?

Didn't I create fire- 

that lit the spark of love?

Didn't I hunt for need- 

to feed all your desires?

Didn't I give you piece-

of heart and precious rib?

You chose to start a war,

pulled out guns and raised walls,

roses my battalion,

their thorns must have brought fear, 

so you aimed gun at me,

shooting down my remnants...

and before coupe de grace, 

you euligised and said, 

my rib and heart not enough

in exchange for your heart,

Yet you gunned mine into tatters, 

and left me to piece my peace.

Now I lay in ruin; 

cobwebbed and desolate.

Hawa, without me in; 

how will we procreate?

Blue flames

Blue flames

A white geist rises from-

an incandescent flame.

Illuminating the remains,

of the witch's letters in exchange.

Sullen, I lay in darkness,

owed to a technicality-

of a stupid failed gizmo,

disturbed as my blue balls...

The witch came to visit the city,

many a day after being away,

only to drop in to light my fire,

and leave me at; "ATTENTION!..."

Now I watch the lies cast in her letters,

rise like a tide in the twilight,

while miles away, she runs further-

with a beat down dripping heart...

when you take that road

Chasing a dream for some people
is like running on a treadmill...
You could walk, you could jog,
you could run; ayeh, you just won't get there!

That's why I prefer road work,
with beads of sweat sparkling,
from the light of sun reflecting,
as the atmospheres pressure-
cuddles your body in a bear hug,
and you're close to giving up,
but you just won't because-
you need to cross the finish line.
And even if you can't see it,
a yonder away past the bending corner,
you strive on like a rolling boulder-
despite your body being worn out,
'cause you chose to take that road;
one tarmacked for loners,
only for the determined.
To achieve through belief,
that they can get there only,
and only if they keep pushing on...

Envisage a lumberjack,
hacking away at a tree bark;
he focuses on his aim then cuts in vain,
till finally his in deep then shoves the tree.

The key is consistency, the yield is timber!
Keep running that extra mile and you'll succeed,
'cause the finish line is usually where everyone else stops!

A business dilemma

A business dilemma

Beauty is meant to turn heads,

love is a business for trading hearts.

With my body trying not to heed,

I still found myself head over heels,

eyes stampede to you like cows on heat,

beguiled by beauty that hindered-

my hobbies of heathen hopscotch.

My heart reached extreme hysterics,

yet it was once sealed in like heaven,

awaiting the fairest of trades to have. 

till I let it out for you to buy and hoard.

Now as I hear it beat in my hand; it hurts,

For it's value to you, I assume, is horrendous.

Am I a bad business man if I'm hampered,

from investing in venture yet I've haggled?

Food for thought

The pine needles whistle,
gently blown by dancing wind
within a deeming day...
Where in a moment of peace,
I lay sunken over stool-
with my hands clasped,
right before my nose-
gently as if in prayer.
I'm Cluttered in thought,
driven by my discordant mindset.
Which knows only one route-
out of unpaved happenings;
Worry!

I think of tomorrow,
even 'fore the sun bids farewell,
to share glorious day
with people uncertain
of what will happen today.
of what their eyes
will cast sight to
in the ambience of dawn,
after being handed keys-
through awakening.

In our sleep we dream,
while awake they say we should,
Ayeh if we spend our time-
dreaming and day dreaming
when will we learn living?
Yet day and night dreams-
are foundations to castles
built in glittering sand. .

It's brick by brick isn't it?
So it's action not thought.

Otherwise jamming the brain-
like a parking lot,
will only make you wonder-
If the lot of thoughts,
will feed the slot to your throat...

In a nut shell,
boats of thoughts,
carrying buts and maybes,
sailing afloat our minds,
yield no fish on unused hooks...

The light blinding my eyes,
faded further into the evening,
blooming a beautiful orange hue...
Brick by brick,
I walked away from the park,
not as a victor, but as a seeker,
who sought food rather than thought of it.

Big blue world

Ooh this big blue world,
got me feeling like a little boy,
I'm wearing sneakers just to fit in
but my foot it just won't slip in (oh no!)

My mama bought me a brand new pair,
said if I lose it I'd lose my hair,
that's why I don't  live like they do,
that's why I don't really care, like they do,
that's why I'm singing the blues,
that's why I don't watch the news,
I hate the pressure it gives me,
this world can make you swim in the deep...

Ooh this big blue world,
it's got me feeling like a little boy,
I'm wearing sneakers just to fit in,
but my foot it just won't slip in (oh no!).

I cried, Dr Dr , my foot it just won't get in,
I tried to be like them but my foot it just won't give in,
I've tried a couple sneakers rather waste on snickers,
eat away my life deal with drama of obesity,
and honestly, I'm living but I'm playing with these big boys,
they're filling up on shoe sizes I can only dream of,
and with big boots, they kick me right on my behind,
big bullies, they dip me in the deep to swim with fishes.

Ooh this big blue world,
got me feeling like a little boy,
I'm wearing sneakers just to fit in,
but my foot it just won't slip in (oh no!)

I'll walk bare feet,
who cares what they think,
keep my Sneakers in their box,
I want no trouble from my mama.
I'll walk bare feet,
who cares what they think,
keep my Sneakers in their box,
I want no trouble from my mama...

Ooh this big blue world,
it's got me feeling like a little boy
I'm wearing sneakers just to fit in,
but my foot it just won't slip in (oh no!)

Broken wings

Broken wings

Broken wings.

Have you not seen me,
raise from the green,
and soar through a beam,
like a dove so pristine?

Do you not have faith?
Do you not have hope?
I see you are afraid
I see you are envious
I see you scuffle in dirt
Trying to find the quills
of ancient rumoured wings,
yet you're over due in search,
once flew like kings and queens;
high and mighty...

Close, almost close to deities...

Now you are,
incapacitated, dilapidated.
Engineered to persevere
yet tinkered and tempted-
by thoughts of evil and fear...

Come to me,
come to me...

Let me look into your eyes,
let me see that burning fire,
let your soul tell your story,
come child, do not worry!
I know you are weary,
and I can save thee...

I have let you die,
but that was not the end...

You're a seed that was planted,
all you have to do is grow...

You crashed from the heavens-
good heavens! I felt your pain...

Now in vain
you seek your wings.
Come child, come!
Do not be afraid,
take my hand,
let me teach you how to fly,
for it is only in your mind.

An illusion of love

She's a painted illusion of love,
that attracts me unlike most.
Yet quaint, her feelings-
are sparse and quite remote.
She's an abstract form of distraction,
and she detracts all my attention...

See, she's an oddly placed painting,
spangled to attract and mangle my heart,
one I stare at like a gecko-
upside down, down side up,
as she wiggles up on her ego ceiling,
inciting my feelings like an ibex...

In my mind I hear her soft chants,
whispering and drawing me,
driving me to the asylum,
and seating me with my fellow mates
who sail with me on her sea of attraction-
distraught, singing shanties to please her.

We are disgruntled goons,
friends till one of us lures and claims-
her distracting presence to self.
There after, knights turned robin hoods,
stealing possessions from the rich,
to give back to our own poor souls...

Yet if through war and theft I acquired her,
and fit myself in her polished frame,
I'd have forgotten how to honestly love her.
For it's love at first sight, then desire
and admiration at second observation
after which, scavenging for lost love...

She

She tortures me!

She's a muse I accuse
for the tremors in my mind.
That on my Richter scale,
surpass the highest unit...

I fear my mind might rapture,
if she sends me and earth quake.

She seduces me...

Lifts her slit,
as if the piece that peeks-
is not enough to keep-
me on my scarred knees.

I want her so bad,
Yet have her at illusive disposal...

She toys with me...

I am her action figure,
I flex my muscles for her;
body, heart, brain, and soul
as she puppeteers my ingenuity.

I play fool for her satisfaction,
but together we orgasm and create.

She makes me feel barren...

Without her I cannot give birth,
so I feel feminised in her presence,
I might be quill equipped and ink dipped;
but without her, I can't break creativity's hymen...

And when she visits I fertilise,
and she helps me conceive virgin concepts.

She mothers me...

Used to lay me in her bosom,
milked my needs to nurture me,
tamed the boy that I was-
into a man with an iron hand...

I now wrought what she drafted,
and she admires our hand crafts.

She loves me...

She gives me all she is,
a goddess that serves me with ease-
I wish her modesty I would return,
for it's hard not to feel loved in turn...

But for all her worth,
I am her kinky love slave...

If she chocked me with inspiration,
for her I would rest peaceful in satisfaction.

She, she is to me,
What life is to the dead;

A chance to live again .

The yellow dashed road...

Seated in "om" state,
atop yellow dashed line-
on bending road way.
I meditate in the calm-
of sacrosanct breeze,
and dull day weather...

By me a mad man passes,
thinking i'v lost access-
to my conical medulla,
like he with a loose wire.

Then a pastor trekking jesters,
with hands of a frozen clapper-
when he stops to pray for me,
thinking I was as troubled as he.

A cooperate man on a business call,
strolls by me boiling in his rental,
arguing about shares like he's mental,
and barely notices me in my Temple.

Then a chubby wealthy fella rolling lazily-
on his off road scooter swinging childishly,
says to me "stacking cash would be better,
than sitting on a road like a dead letter."

The selfie queen dressed so pristine-
with her subjects dressed for the scene,
huddle up behind me to say, "cheese,"
until I fart and break them up with ease.

Then they flee till a poor man comes by,
sits by the grass and tsk's as he sighs-
troubled by a worry in the hurrying world,
down like a flag that needs to be furled...

The birds in the sky feed my head with a song,
as Jesus and Jackson in my mind moon walk along.
The trees waving leaves add a really sweet symphony;
that ladles my mind with peace that's heavenly...

Sometimes we do things that are crazy to crazies,
but finding peace is an art form that's abstract-
paint it how you want, when you want, with who you want,
and sit in your vehicle to take you on that yellow dashed road...

Latif Baker

Latif Baker.

I hovered in the atmosphere,
staring at my wide open body,
as my gunner dragged out-
his double burrow past the door.

I had spoken words for the wise to fools...

I had told them I would save them,
awaken each from their sleep,
cut the chain off each sheep,
limb by limb to save each being...

They called me a political affiliate,
seeking another piece of their cake,
so stones they cast to my head,
and sent me to a hospital bed...

And I dreamt a dream like Abe linc,
of a Catafalque gawking like a shrink,
tapping death like a pen at my sorry state-
as people around cried and laughed, at last.

I awoke with a gut feeling,
dwindling from my conscious-
to the pores of my skin,
and into trickles of sweat.

When I got my quill,
to jot down my final will,

Maria Rosa (la vie sur un lit de roses)

la vie a las lit de roses

You drown me in your bed of Roses,
cradle me in there and sing to me;
parodies of silent operetta,
that comfort me and make me better
yet often prick me for I can feel your pain...

The earth unearthed and birthed you,
summoned by the will of higher power.
The tropics told tales of changed weather,
as you anew lost all fortunes mercy,
of radiant colour flowing out your lips...

You once used to flux white winter crystals,
but when we met it's like you had cracked teeth,
It felt like you were ashamed or afraid to speak.
but you smiled, and I l lost all speech,
they told me I missed to hear you sing..

A Mimosa-pudica; I shrunk in fear my dear,
when I asked you to join me in wanderlust-
on a tour to the lea of loves great expanse...
I felt like you held your words in pride,
but you held peace sign after which we did stride...

It felt like we had been lovers in our past lives,
held hands in silence like entwined canopies-
the beauty of it seen outward and inward.
We had peace of natural ever green,
and the nature of the wild stomping in our hearts.

We went where the water falls fall and leaped,
after which love followed and blossomed.
I now stare into your eyes, your golden eyes,
and I thank God for your priceless beauty-
for it is true He handed you to me like air...

In your atmosphere I feel poetic poignancy,
for when we exchange character in character trade,
you crochet finely knit words for my diet.
Your silence is musical; it's sweet to the ear
like pine needles blown by a calm breeze...

Every time you are away from me,
I pick-roses and peal them petal by petal,
chanting "you love me, you love me not,"
and this mysterious rose speculation-
thoroughly confirms your love for me...

By your side in our precious time;
I lay calm and comfy in ardent silence,
with no need to speak just to feel,
the delicate rose touch of your skin-
burn goosebumps on my rough hide.

Your love is a pool of serene water,
adorned with floating rose petals,
and I, I am sunk deep in your waters.
for your silence is in an elixir;
that which gives me back pieces-
of my mind from this troubled world.

Maria Rosa, la vie a las lit de roses,
when a thorn pricks you,
I'll be that mouse that saves your elephant heart.

Take me to Church [Performance Piece]

Black Isa, Take me to Church!

I keep,
going to the river to pray,
cause I need,
something to wash out the pain,
and God knows,
I try to keep my demons at bay,
but oh they,
fight me and keep me awake

Take me to church,
take me to church...

Where I can sing with my holy spirit.
looking  possessed by unholy majini.
for from where I hail it's not a norm to sing,
like this beard that I fear makes queer,
in this place that I need to terrorise,
and bomb down my unholy self-
'fore they lock me up for identity theft.

Take me to church!
Where the preacher won't point fingers,
but will my parcel of alms fit their figures?
For I am poor but want to be treated like a deacon-
'cause first come first serve makes me-
high and mighty like a steeple beacon..


Take me to church,
where I can be treated like Jesus treated sinners,
and if I leaped a leap of lepers,
 I'd fit in among the leopards.
Pure breeds of fine skin and body,
doted to the soul by sins,
moulded beings moulded by sins-
for breaking their din...

I said; Take me to church
for my temple is unholy,
I keep going to the river-
but I don't know where John is-
to baptist and cleanse me
I keep praying and praying,
but the demons keep poking and poking-
for they find me sweet as I'm forbidden-
forbidden to them like pork is to Muslims...

Take me to church,
where we perfume ourselves to mask foul odours,
yet if like a whiff of incense with essence-
we reached the pulpit first
to confess and sacrifice our greed,
pride, and materialistic bridal majesty
to our majesty forgiveness would be in order,
but we do not bother-
we act naive and pay high prices,
to live exquisite niggard/selfish lives,
driving five sit cars but can't afford
to give another brother a lift,
oh do you get my drift?

We single out and stigmatise,
who at dinner time is worth fish or bones-
yet Jesus gave us all...
Maybe if they sold goodness-
we would all be wealthy at heart,
and it hurts that before you is a sinner,
once a jerk off fella turned to Casanova,
staging telenovelas for TV to see me,
as I lost me until I turned of the TV,
and saw a reflection of the real me!

I was lost, lost inside a box,
selling kilos of sperm to my hand,
condoms, and bygones for short lived gratification,
must I mention 'bout abortion, fornication,
segregation, homosexual relation-
now its cool for us to live without devotion...

For it's 'A' okay for us to live in sin today;
we must have forgotten who grades us tomorrow.
The highest of the highest; numero uno;
Alpha and Omega somebody please give me a:
HALLELUJAH!

Take me to church,
Take me to church...

We are Adams and Eves,
chopped from heaven like hanging eaves,
we cracked and gave into sin and greed,
we are the banned devils indeed and in need Of a saviour...

Take me to church,
for I fear I might get bombed in my own mosque,
yet I've heard that the church is a woman in a skimpy skirt!

Now, now don't be mad a me for I am not he,
who walked into our homes in broad day light,
with no need for a welcome like vampires,
with no shame like USA and infiltrated-
all our DNA and killed our humility with a sin-Ak...
so it is the reason I now seek refuge

For I am lost... so I wrought...
Isa if you hear me our saviour
This is not a poem it's an S.O.S....

Up

"You have only just began..." Journey UP to success.

I've been stool sitting-
for many a year,
in a cart ride heading-
to a place called "home."
A place where success resides,
a place where my trajectory,
wears a smirk and tells me;
"Little hamster, you're almost there."

Yet the stool on which I sat
with friends by my side,
to par with me like cats,
as our teachers parroted,
was a "key" to a future locked away...

I was on this balloon ride-
empty within yet floating-
steadily on my way up,
to a vast and void sky...

When bench time elapsed,
I rose, king from a throne-
crowned by a graduation hat-
heir to tons of nothing.
I opened the locker of my future,
and my eyes feasted on a horrid world,
I dropped my keys in agape!

Having bequeathed nothing,
except years of experience in cramming,
and absolutely none in creativity,
I pita-pata  my feet where I saw light-
commencing was apprehending,
but I did what I had to,
even with hands tied behind my back...

I climbed the stairs in travail,
the light before me blinding me,
thoughts in my head draining,
saying, "you don't have to do this..."

To be honest,
I didn't know the "chariot ride" to heaven,
was close to walking on a blade line.
Yet to aid us on our journeys,
we are handed these pedagogues-
that lay out our bench marks, and hark!
They don't prove intelligence.
they are just marks on maps,
drafted for us to see,
Ayeh, to keep on walking...

Upon apex,
of the flight of stairs-
my feet coal burnt,
I calmed as I pant,
finally!
I basked in the light,
hope, home; "heaven.."


When I turned to my left,
a flight of stairs appeared and I glared,
and the devil grinned and said to me,

"You have only just began..."

Authentic

Just the other day,
I asked a friend;
"do you Ugandans-
have an accent?"
She thought for a second,
then turned to reply,
"no, not really, well it depends."
And I'm thinking wow,
such an ambiguous answer,
then she goes and asks, "why?"

Well...

Thoughts on the Igbo's,
and their thick lavish accents,
made me wonder my decent.
I mean it's rather quaint,
but worth contemplating.

See I wanted to create-
something for one to relate,
something the Ugandan in me-
would own entirely,
something that wouldn't steal-
my so called "African-ism."

My first road block-
was that English is British,
and there's no way to own it-
even if mine is relatively polished,
yet also, American-ish

So I have this ism of ish,
going on about me...
I'm African-ish, American-ish,
Brit-ish yet also myself-ish.
I'm like a queer fish;
everyone is trying to hook me.

So anyway, I hopped that block,
and took a turn round the corner,
and there it was again,
the damn road block!

I had no "IGWEH," nor "KINEKE,"
Or even a click to my speech...
I was disappointed,
I felt naked!

So there I was, stripped,
everyone staring at me-
my tiny balls, my little hairy chest,
feeling ashamed yet astounded-
I couldn't believe I felt unauthentic.

I mean I spoke this language,
I called it mine too,
But, you know it's sketchy,
it lacked root,
it lacked that, how can I say-
je ne sai quoi (french-ish),
or in layman's language "authenticity,"
so I felt like I didn't belong...

Then again,
with these "road blocks,"
I sat down and wrote,
upon realisation in my mind,
that root is not my route,
and that this that I wrought;
is my kind of poetry...

It helps me sink my pen
into ink wells untapped,
to seek deep fresh inspiration-
to replenish me like zam zam.
It helps me express myself,
exquisitely using refined styles,
reborn and re-structured;
It helps me be me,
a being that understands,
languages are for expression,
cultures are for taming,
religions are for grooming,
prayer is a medium,
and "God" is for creation..

And the creator-
made an authentic being.

Asylum mayhem

Walking the mad man hallway.

Lighting struck and thunder shrilled,
as the hailstorm ravished outside.
Doctors and nurses,
were busy sipping coffee,
and I was trying to run from 'me'...

I was alone in the hall way-
lonely yet happy,
conflicting and tripping
like a switch being toyed with.

("Aaaah, aaaaah!@#")

I dragged my hands over the wall,
and my feet on the floor.
lighting struck again!
"Aaaaah, aaaa...!"
Belittled by my "flaws,"
I was barely grounded-
weakened by their drugs,
so I struggled to reach the door.
"Aaaaah, aaaa...!"
The light bulbs seemed to flicker,
but my uncertainty made me doubtful...

I slurred as I barked to myself-
in bitter-sweet silence.
'GET YOURSELF TOGETHER...'
As thoughts ricochet loudly off the walls-
of my damned brain like bullets,
I ducked and started to shiver,
till I realised the flickers-
were mere lighting...

"Aaaaahh, aaaaaah!"

The nut jobs kept screaming!
pushing over my sanity barricade-
yet the war in my mind's sphere,
encompassed me like a lunar halo...

"He-he-he...
I'm not crazy," I comforted myself.
Banging my head on the door,
uttering vignettes scripts,
from the canvas of my dark mind;
a black beret of a crazy artist-
seeking peace in abstract forms,
out of norm to the naked eye...

"He-he-he..."

My hands were tied to protect me from me,
yet to me, my mind was fine.
Even if my "insanity" battled my sanity,
as skrillex music in my head-
made me bob like crazy,
distorting my chain of thoughts...

("Aaaaaahh, aaaa!")

There was no light ahead,
but I kept dragging alas,
the door was shut when I reached.
Locked like I in my straitjacket,
so my hope steadily escaped,
yet from myself I had to escape...

("Aaaa,aaaah!@#!")

The path way glittered like sun lit hay,
the storm toned down to drizzles,
and I slid my back down the door-
to bench and find comfort on tiled floor.
as I imagined I was sitting on a cloud,
and despite my asylum confines...
I smiled and saw beauty in my
hopeless situation; heaven in my mayhem..

"Muhuhahahaaa,
I'm not crazy..."

TIRED!

This loud mind is troubled,
and its loud mouth rots in silence-
with close to foul thoughts,
that reek the stench of a long soaked soul.

I need to wring my brain,
it's bottled silence too long...

I've been told I'm too young,
too young to walk the isle,
yet those that walk it are toddlers
toddlers in black suite and tie

Afraid to be wise,
afraid to do what is right,
afraid to live off the line.
For everyday man-

Is a sheep that flocks the duck line,
that which leads straight into a land mine,
for I often see people go BOOM!
Then get surprised over mistakes they tiled,

I am tired!

Tired of being BROKE!
Black, redundant, opaque,
kaput, and envious, I am tired!
Black is just a colour; it's not me.
yet due it I feel like I do not belong.

Redundant for my lack of creativity,
and ingenuity because of dependency.
Yet I am a 'free slave', free from stupidity,
free from indemnity, I owe no dues!
I might be an opaque modern slave,
and His light "can't" go through me,
that does not mean I am not blessed.

My mind has been pushed to kaput!
I have been forced to believe I am worthless,
in minute counts of tiny Penny's,
merely minted but have me smitten
yet are made from God given minerals-
it's a shame, and at this "exorbitant price;"

I-am-Envious!
Feeling broke as if I cannot afford,
confidence without any additives,
elegance without Gucci for enhancement,
dividends without reading so damn hard!

As if, As if, I cannot knead dough,
yet the people of my homeland,
are used as satire for their expertise-
in grinding and hustling that dough...
Ayeh, that's not funny.

I tell you what's funny?
Not being able to afford a toilet roll,
yet one can afford to brag and ball.
Me trying to keep it on the low-low,
with no fake chains on my neck 'cause of yolo.
Me trying to live within my means-
yet it seems I'm being miserly.
Me envying my friends as they shine
with fake chains and industrial rejects.
yet they are just trying to fake it till they make it..
We're soot filled Kettles,
bubbling boiling inside, trying to shine again.

How did success go from-
being measured in honour and valour,
to trinkets of wealth and countable paper?

I'm Tired, tired, tired!

Of being average yet I am a maverick
Tired of having to shine like a star to stand out,
yet one can never be a star;
we are human beings-
made of clay, made of matter!
So no matter the matter;
we are meant to shine!
So I don't see why we need bling-bling,
for us to stand out like Singh-Singh

(Sigh...)

I am tired!
Tired of being afraid,
afraid to change and move forward,
yet I am a product of birth,
I was procreated hence forth-
from birth there should be growth,

Afraid to love one another for it hurts,
tell that to God whose trust we often squander.
Afraid to live out the box,
yet there is - no - box!
Afraid to be smart,
yet it's part of our art.
Afraid to be honest for truth hurts,
so what should we do, lie?
Afraid to be an individual,
who's distinct and entirely different,
whose finger prints match no other.

You see, even If we were Siamese,
Our blue prints would be-
differentiated with much ease,
and even if different, we act like twins-
fighting against each other,
losing the value in our exquisite love,
yet there is sanctuary-
in the matrimony of togetherness...

Walks of life

I walk slow,
with a humble snail gait,
trying to figure out fate,
and what bait it sets to my dates...
Recurrently I contemplate,
over things that agitate-
like upon which way,
life will be sending me today,
or whether if my ways;
will get me where I want tomorrow?

Some of my mates,
those I've lived to know,
and those I'll get to know;
take paths of conical shape.
Earth is round due its gravity pull-
all things come dwindling down,
so no matter how high up above-
it is to the ground that we are bound...

So they spin round in circles,
seeking a precious path of marble.
Upon which are things distinct,
things which get your mind to the brink-
things like money; sweet, sweet money;
A dictating Hitler for humble dwellers,
yet also, fish bate for dry land fishers;
that veggie green gives man a gators gait.

The essence to "a" life yet not our essence in
                the presence of life.
                         .  .  .

Some walk meandering with haste,
caught up in whimsical debate-
pondering upon which mate to mate,
or which car to take her/them for a date.
They cheat and lie to help them look fly,
soar a faux soar which leaves them sore,
roar a miaow roar to fake way like kajal-
trying to shake fate off the road it takes.

                         . . .

The slutty walk of the temptress is sultry,
it lures and allures the evil spirit to conjure,
into the prey of the temptress trying to endure.
Selling sin is a disturbing thing! Especially-
if your desire is to survive life's molestation,
with prudence you weigh out all caveats,
and alas, a roach on back with nothing left-
you poignantly swing from right to left,
stressed and intoxicated dreading sunset.

For in depth of dark your soul is wounded as you
                      await sunrise
                           . . .

Ayeh in time; my dear, you will be fine.
Those customers that in twine in your vines,
distressing your mind like squeaking chalk,
those whose staggering walk talks no talk,
those are the sinners to console your soul.
For we are all sinners awaiting parole...
Ayeh; a careless attitude shows no gratitude,
yet the riches amassed onto their pay rolls
Test further the desires they fail to control.

Desires are sources of pleasure whose roads
             must be trekked with caution.
                          . . .

Then those that strut with chests for heads;
with Infallible pride to lead way like lead.
These are those that majesty did not crown;
ayeh; in and on their heads is a plume crown
nothing like the heavenly halo of those saved.
These, these are those that walk a thin line,
for pride in your bride is commendable,
yet nonsensical pride is demeaning.
Pride is a shoe to help you walk that mile,
a shoe can be used to step on people!
                            . . .

An earnest great trekker takes pride in work,
walks extra miles and still affords a smile,
breaks yawn at dawn from rest like the sun,
leaves the fam home to gain on life's run,
fears to sloth for he knows life is a test,
strives to grow and stand out from the rest,
distastes hate and quests for peace in love,
faults but repents and shuns re-engagement.

"The earnest human is an honest trekker;
                  a beacon of hope."
                          . . .

 "Life is a journey jammed with trekkers
                 Of multiple characters..."

           

Fibonacci stair 'Case'

The dream weaver caught me off guard.
It was a standard procedure,
parables at each corner and many doors,
all for me to walk through if I chose-
I suppose, but He lead me to a certain flaw.

The stairs swivelled in Fibonacci sequence,
each step embedded with gems and jewels,
leading to what we perceive as finer things.

He walked yet looked like he hovered,
leading the way with his golden stick.
He struck between simple and exquisite,
never talked nor looked at me,
we just strolled and I observed it all.
I barely remember all that I saw,
Just glimpses and pictures to piece and tell.

Further up, things turned glamorous,
with people sleeping on and with diamond.
They never looked, only the diamond shimmered.
It shimmered yet looked jaded and jailed,
tied to necks on chains none knew its worth;

Just its money value...

I don't know what I was meant to see,
but mostly I saw people in opulence.
Further up; the numbers dwindled,
till we reached the top where we saw it all,
and how far you could humanly fall!

They say our weaknesses reveal our need,
our need to be touched within and felt,
and only one through our hearts can drill,
to excavate and truly reveal;
the majestic diamonds we are.

I was feeling low the night before,
something within just didn't glow like before.
So I laid low and when it was time to sleep off,
I was cast in a dream to be shown-
things I thought of but didn't quite know...

The water is beautiful when you see it glow;
Ayeh, is its beauty lost when the sun goes?
In life some things we will never know;
Ayeh, we're to discover the gold in our souls
So take it slow, don't reach so high you'll fall

You might learn but when you land it'll be time to go.
and if you understand, you're as humanly high as you can go or glow.

Sarah

Sarah, Sarah...
"Lwaki obguma ngo'bwito?
Tobaikiriza kuchamuza,
ata kuzimba tomwetaga.
Ekitibwa kyo nekyo bugaiga bwo,
wokigaba oida kwavuwala

I once met a young girl of thirteen,
black young and beautiful-
short, thick, curly African hair.
They often call it kaweke.
Her eyes, a rare shade of brown-
none could read the pain within...

Her influence was the big screen TV,
which she often visited in the kibanda-
the local movie studio in her village.
Like many, she was drawn to luxury,
yet didn't come from a well to do family,

Meals in her home didn't happen daily,
some were specially reserved for Christmas,
along side gifts like shoes and clothes;
of which what was bought was not for all.
Being the middle child; the black sheep,
she always ended up last on the family list.

So her many tears lead her to the kibanda,
Just to catch up on unrealistic reality TV.
to fuel up on her desire for the trendy,
and fill the void within dug deep by family.

while at the kibanda, she met a man;
a hunter, starved and ready to devour her.
So he bated and manipulated her desires,
creating heed over things she didn't need;

A devil in disguise tempting an angel...

"Sarah, Sarah.. "
He didn't know her name, she hadn't conceded
so he called her Sarah for lack of a better option.
"Sarah, Sarah..
Ki?... lwaki tompaku?"
Sarah, why don't you give me some? he begged.
Ku byenkuwa iwe tonendesa?"
"Of all I've given you, aren't I deserving? he added.

"Nkuwe ki?"
What should I give you, she'd always ask.

He kept giving her gifts,
some she didn't accept,
some she'd foolishly take,
and in return he'd demand,
and Sarah of insect wit,
was naive and didn't understand-
the nature of the game she was playing.

At first he wasn't forceful, ayeh;
he started coercing her to oblige.
Having accepted all he's bribes,
she started to feel indebted,

So on this one dreadful evening,
after insisting to escort her home.
He had had enough of her games,
and enough of alcoholic drink..

when they reached a dark and bushy area,
he gripped her face and forced a kiss.
Perplexed, she tried to throw out her fists,
he held her arms and shoved her to the ground.

She shrilled but no one came to save her.
He was intoxicated so was short of fear.
He pulled up her short school skirt,
and like the brute he was he had his way.

When she got home after that,
she was dissolved by thought.
Uneducated but knew right from wrong,
she tossed, turned and cried all night long.

She was too afraid to open up to anyone,
so she kept at his game like a vile curse,
taunting and tempting her to the hearse,
until he realised she had become pregnant.

She realised her body changes soon,
She saw the troubles faced by her family,
so she picked a leaf from her tree,
decided to 'act wise' and go for abortion.

It was not the wisest thing to do;
some disagree, some say live and let live,
but she could barely afford to keep it together,
how could she dare add another on board?

Through persistence she got his assistance.
He aided the abortion but had given "Sarah" H.I.V.
When she got the tragic news from the doctor,
she felt poorer than she had ever been before...

Her family used ask what the matter was,
but did it matter, they'd only reject her...
I met her as a visiting counsellor in her school,
she confided in me and we became close friends,
Not too many years in, she passed away as an s.6 graduate,
I guess the glory in story lied in her strength.

Sarah, Sarah...
Lwaki obguma ngo'bwito,
Why do you heat up like boiling oil,
Tobaikiriza kuchamuza,
Don't let them entice you.
Ata kuzimba tomwetaga.
You don't need anyone that doesn't build you.
Ekitibwa kyo nekyo bugaiga bwo,
The respect you give your self is your wealth,
Wokigaba oida kwavuwala,
If you give it away you'll have no value,
Kikumeh, wekuumeh!"
Safe guard it, safe guard it.

H.I.V

Ekitibwa kyo nekyo bugaiga bwo
Wokigaba oida kwavuwala!

Know your worth before you walk a path-
that's elegantly designed to ruin your life.
H.I.V is real, just as much as pregnancies,
and you're the dust that causes its allergies-
yet you could be the condom that stops its sperm,
or that fighter that avoids getting into fights.
Don't struggle and hustle when there is no meddle,
in it for you on the table for jumping a huddle.
keep your keys on the table and don't drive,
Unless your driver straps on and takes precaution;
Otherwise, you'll end up hitting "bumps,"
and incurring costs out of your budget.

This is for the beautiful women out there,
You are the leaders of this world,
that we men egotistically call ours.
You're mothers that bring forth generations,
you might have come second in creation,
but, without you nothing can go further.
Even if us as fathers role play like mothers,
we just are not you, we can't yield that fruit,
we can't till like you do, we might be farmers-
with the capability to plant seed;
Ayeh, you are our beloved mother nature...
We await your light to aid our growth,
that ray of light that shows us the path.
A path through a door of which;

You hold the key,
So H.I.V, Hold It Vainly!

The orchestra...

The shadow is our friend,
it helps us play our little games.
The spotlight our muse,
helps us execute our moves,
as we sparkle like reflector lights-
leading the way to entertainment.

Our lines are vines,
that connect us with our audience,
if they are cut off;
we stammer like epileptic victims,
with no spoons in the mouth,
it's not sweet at all....

Our audience,
The saddle on which we struggle,
as we endeavour to jump huddles
nerve wrecked in need of cuddles
from the sweet caress of success,
for it's that beautiful girl;
our derby's prize, the meddle.
The only thing to make us calm,
after we have entertained, satisfied,
bowed, and waved goodbye..

The sits in which they fill,
are the tickets that we bill-
to access them and make them feel,
how we feel when our hearts are still.
Numbed by the love that inspired,
and gave us reason to bleed,
and in all honesty to seek heed.
They are the parcels that bag,
our reactions from persons,
endeared by our inventions;
they are what carry us all...

The stage is an aid for the masquerade;
a prop for the props from the audience en mass,
as we carry out precarious acts in play,
like a Nightingale singing out in the pale-
to drive out ennui and sway them to stay.
It carries us, it's the deck on which we ship,
sailing steadily into performance sea,
where upon the waves there's much to see;
act in comedy and sorrow in honesty,
drama in enmity and action in situation,
and for the grande finale of medley,
all we desire is your ardent devotion,
for the orchestra is our home,
and you are welcome to walk into our emotion

Beautiful Rebels, written by Sezi, performed by Ibrahim

My first video reciting a poem by Sezi called "beautiful rebels." It's not all that clear but I hope you like it.

I am...

I am...

I am what I am,
And what I am
Is what I believe I am...

I am free will,
A contradiction of sorts
Where I choose the path of my destiny
Drafted out by God who's watching me

I am honesty,
yet also deceit,
I could lie and cheat
But choose not to accept defeat

I am peace
With a slight way of rage.
Therefore half indo
With a way of nature like Katrina

I am rich,
With a heart of gold
And poor with no money
To buy me bars of gold

I am rare
Like the stone sodalite
Yet also one in the same
A gem of similar specie

I am soulful
A chamber of hope, peace; freedom.
Yet also heartless;
I could beat one at the game of love

I am freedom;
Clouds; amorphous, colour; beauty
Yet a slave
Trapped in a body locked in society

I am joy
Bright and infectious like the sun,
yet also a paradox,
a clown filled with tons of sorrow

I am a believer,
for I choose to be one,
as God chose Jesus to be-gotten,
and Adam to be-made

I am a replica;
a copied cut from a similar hat,
uet the tricks in my bag can never match-
that of the maker and master

I am what I am-
and so much more,
and you are me
for we are OnE...

Mother abscond

In the lock of her arms,
is where I thought I'd be wed-
but instead, I'm locked in dread-
with this poetry in my head,
of things I should have said.
I thought of the future ahead,
and what would have changed
If her and I vowed and wed...

I'm sorry darling, I figured-
that at about this time of the year,
I'd be rubbing my nose on yours,
I'd sneeze and you'd giggle
'cause usually, I cough and sneeze-
simultaneously, everyone thinks it funny...
Your mother would carry you away,
smack me on the head and say;
"You're going to make her ill!"
but still, I'd walk to both of you and hug you...

I'm sorry my dear, I'd have loved,
to hold your wee hands in my palm.
You and your tiny socks head and toe,
crawling on the floor towards me,
unaware of the joy that you bring me.
I'd have loved to see you pretend cry-
so loud yet no tears in your eyes.
You'd be a crook but to you I'd hooked,
all my love and riches I'd let you steal,
for you'd have booked my heart.

My dear, I'm mentally prepared for you;
ayeh, they say I'm financially impaired,
yet for you I could be pushed to the wall-
in a sticky situation like a roach on it's back;
helpless and needless to say hopeless;
yet I'd reap out follicle by follicle,
trying to figure out every obstacle-
that hinders crowning you possible,
for as my princess you'd deserve it all.

Ayeh, it's perverse, your mother abscond,
she left and didn't call and it's toll-
lays heavy on my chest I can't rest...
We all look for love my dear,
yet when availed we run like deer.
Is it fear? Or the blind urge for riches,
for love is as pure as sparkling gold,
and it's in human nature to discover,
find some and seek out some more.

Mother abscond,
and I do not blame her this world is cold.
In her fetus you would have found warmth,
but in my arms she did not find what she sought.

What rich doesn't teach.

Wealth is an ultimate goal for most,
ayeh is there essence in abundance-
if riches just lay there redundant?

Wealth could be in health, money,
shoes, cars, clothes, beauty or honey;
the sweet life averse from street life...

Riches have built roofs over our heads,
and fences of stone round our homes-
yet we're aloof towards our neighbours,
only to feel alone in these big blue homes.

We have phones that make calls from afar,
we're rich on the social network-
yet poor socially and fail to ajar-
when we're up close trying to connect.

Those who beauty romps their heads,
run thick make up to keep them ahead,
making up for the lack of confidence
which should be beauty's quintessence.

For eventually the forged beauty goes to waste-
as it's limited, stuck only to the face...
Yet if you know your worth n look like a moth,
hell will fall from spears of eyes but you'll be tough!

Beauty can get you what you want,
yet it's deceit that beauty is all one needs...
For a house that's unfinished on the outside,
could be a well furnished home on the inside...

The vast clothes we fold in our closets,
make us feel like lords dressed in gold,
and it's not that this applies to most;
the mongers hoard is just appalling!

For there's no worth in tons of cloth,
ayeh, it's subtle if you are charitable,
and your heart of gold is amicable
and when you care it's genuine.

But of course a Porsche to some is better than a horse,
yet there is no value of life in fleets of porches.
So a Porsche just to floss is worth the applause
but a ranch full of horses brings mercy from God.

For to preserve life, values life.
to live "the life" endangers life.
Take the life of a leader who's a giver,
or that of a queen who shops as peasants hunger.

Then of the things that make life sweet;

We shouldn't slip and fall to our knees-
to be victims of honey's slippery defeat...
The drugs, sex, money, and power,
are things that bring us to our knees
'cause we seek out of desperate need.

When we strive to achieve all these dreams,
some live to deceive to achieve,
some kill with belief they'll achieve,
some find peace in their satisfied needs....

It's important to know there's a key you hold...
Riches might make you bold on your way to gold,
ayeh, this world is cold if a friend has no hand to hold.
so learn to strive but strive to learn;

What riches can earn and the worth of plenty riches.



If you liked his check out it's all about riches

It's all about riches...

The root of juxtaposition-
in the world as a society,
is the blinding cause of gold.
for to most it's all about riches...

In my country where roads-
stretch along in pot hole form-
leading to mansions of lords,
there sits the agony of storms...

Ayeh; that's not to say,
that way below the "line of glory,"
agony does not tell it's story...

The question is...

Would you rather tear in a hut or château?

Riches are burdens yet glad tidings,
sparkling in hue yet blinding,
often more attractive when in lack,
yet not quite filling when acquired.

Many strive to stack "riches,"
those equipped try to flee the cold,
brought forth to them by money,
hence seek warmth in luxury.

As some stitch their old rags,
just to fake it as they wish for riches.
others splash their riches on harlots,
expecting in return "golden honey"

Yet to their surprise some bee hives are dry....


They call it lucky if a puppy-
has a kennel for it to lay and sleep.
Why is it unlucky if your car dies,
and a homeless guy saves your day?

Helps you push it off his lonely street,
where at night he sleeps calm n deep,
as you drive by him to a flashy hotel-
leaving your rental for ghosts to keep.

In Isa chappals Villagers are getting jiggers,
falling ill with cracks on their heels.
as uptown brothers are rocking snickers;
tons of pairs just to up their appeal-

Laughing at villagers looking poor as hell,
hell better come over to teach them like Yale.
ayeh, who am I to say what's fair n unfair-
yet behind my closet is a couple of pairs?

The riches we have give us pride and greed,
while the riches we lack make us desperate...
It's a battle caused by lack of contentment,
where if the root of troubles isn't heeded-

Some opt to large burrows of ales,
wines, and litres of Jack Daniels.
Habits of drowning away sorrows,
shared by both parties compared.

So purchase of these intoxicants,
they say, keeps the troubles at bay,
as the sailor sails deep into sea,
seeking solace in riches upstream.

We all want what we want,
these "riches," these hopes;
illusions we chase and tie to,
some could even take a life;
struggling to get their own lives...

It's all about riches,
yet if the dawn fails to rise in the morn,
all those who sought out the sun-
will leave the earth with none.

The bearded fellow II (An insight.)

The image portrayed by a beard-
is a fallacy to human expectation.

The truth and sin within,
is hidden beyond the cover-
of a "wise and holy book."
If you flipped it page by Page,
to read the details entailed,
the trails of the man behind the skin
blessed forest full with beard.
would shutter your glass eyes-
piece for piece for peace,
left this troubled fellow-
dues of its absence embezzled
by lies, worry, obscenity; a trinity.

Worshipped in different forms;
Music, the god of lies and obscenity,
which by religious distinct-
is meant to be left pristine,

Love, a spirit of joy and worry
whose vassal demands to be filled
yet the cause of emptiness, they say-
is the lack of spiritual contentment,

Lust, his sacred mother Mary.
love's relative yet not imperative-
demands to be filled yet is impervious.
for after penetration, the need-
to be replenished rises even more..

So this bearded fellow,
confused and often mellow.
battles a guise of self,
pampered by the reader,
that barely reads into depth,
the, worries, lies, trials,
why's and confusions-
that cause him to be fooled.

Indeed the lines are thin.
So thin from being pious,
he often falls victim of sin.
So thin from being assumed wise,
he often crosses over to foolishness.


Check out The bearded fellow

LOUDER!

LOUDER!

I hear a beat on every street,
from radios in shops selling sweets,
to persons walking by with stereo radios,
or headsets locked in like oreos.

As I try to lay my head to sleep,
a loud base thumps to a beat.
when I'm part dead and fast asleep,
an alarm pulls me back onto my feet.

Speakers, headsets, and headphones
deliver possessive melodies n beats,
that sink in and make us sing along
or to the beat someone shuffles feet...

Heads bob to songs in resonance,
hearts feel the real in lyrics,
minds are ruled by music,
music is fore front in these streets.

The world's getting louder by the hour.
Sometimes I wonder if I should cower
over these trumpets that move our feet,
as we move swiftly to the final hour?

I'm leaving/ until the BS

I'm leaving/ Until the BS...

New found love is a hot plate of food,
marinated in the finest recipes,
awaiting cupid's victims to sit and feast.

First timers dine in exquisite places;
the first impression has to be memorable
and their chef, Cupid of course, undoubtedly generous.

The lush taste tingles their tongue,
the fine wine sparkles in their mouths,
and chills through their skins rally like a defensive porcupine...

After the "first supper", Judas/ Beatrice betrays chastity,
and gives into what Simon says.
Then guilt trips are booked like cruise ships by those once innocent...

The pressure becomes unbearable,
the sacrifice was great, the compromise
is to bare the repercussions of BS in the R/S.

For if you leave, It won't be long until the BS.

So darling,
For the times you asked me,
not to piss on the toilet seat,
and I sat like a Mrs,
not to play the game of miss! [Smh]
I I'd piss on you right now,
but I'm not R.Kelly!

For the times I ironed my bedding,
for me to bid for a winning,
before we'd play the game of trading-
parts in sheets and I did win bid.
you made me a gambler for hairy cat...

For all the times you couldn't,
make up your mind on what to eat,
then picked a piece of chicken,
from my peace of plate and ate,
I always wanted to whoop you...
But I'm too may weather for you..

For all the times you nagged me,
about old things like a history teacher,
you did this, remember this...
What happened to forgive and forget?
 I thought last time was the last time?

You nag me like a broken record,
the worst of its kind replaying bebe cool-
trying to sing an ed sheeran song!
Oh God, Shush!

For all the times you had me on my knees,
to kiss the apples of your gardens.
Now you demand me to do so like a druggie,
as if your are going to pay me- well,
I've had enough! I'm not going to stand in line,
like those apple desperados for your apples.
For your are now like china produce-
It's only 'cause my options are limited!

For the times you had me on house arrest,
when I could be watching soccer with the boys,
but you were too insecure-
you threatened to label my genitals...
You're a psycho, I hope you know so!

For times you made me play house help,
then I had to pay a house help
who you accused me of sleeping with...
Yet all you do is swing your ovaries,
you've got the nerve woman-
matter of fact you've got the balls,
I should give you my pants!

And then you like to be lied to,
Yet you hate it when I lie to you!
Okay you're the most beautiful-
woman in the world! Haah!
Lies! Lies! lies, and you know it!
Women are precious-
it's inevitable not to look.
That's why i ogle when a fine mummy,
crosses by me, dressed to tempt me,
like Lucifer off that apple tree,
until you smack and wake me!

But don't get me wrong,
I know your always right,
and darling I'm sorry.
The truth is you are beautiful,
but the way you push me is ugly.
You shove me into a world with heralds,
heralds that forgot love at the post office...

Too insecure to love,
'cause they might kill the messenger,
Too in love with themselves,
if they could they'd send a clone to deliver.
So in their seductive uniforms,
they slither but quiver.

Meant to relay love,
but make us relay after them,
yet most of us are horny pricks;
therefore, quick to forget the actual message.

so darling, I don't want to chase after BS,
I don't want to chase skirts anymore,
in this hot UG sun yet the chase gets dull like dun.
I get tired of convincing people,
I'm forgetful like a goldfish-
but love like an ingrained leech
Yet with you hit home run,
for you handed me the message.




The worst part of all this poetic BS,
besides me being mad at you for your stress,
is the fact that you've been silent-
waiting for me to cut to the chase.

Ayeh, I'v packed my bags and I'm leaving,
I'm going down stairs where I'll be sleeping,
In the couch, until you forgive me for all the BS I just said!

The convoy leaders

“Rushing though streets for executive duty,”
their cars flee from local traffic with “cause.”
They are supposed to convoke people,
ayeh, from the streets they draw them apart,
rushing through urgently to play “their part.”
They lack patience, an essential key in their cast,
they are leaders incomparable to none yet we are one.

They raise their stature yet their society is stagnant,
they break their own laws yet bind them to govern us,
they speed through streets going above limit,
causing alarm with sirens yet the city is close to a stroke.
Going about town in air conditioned state provided cars;
it's no wonder our transport faculties propagate enmity,
how can they help if they don't know the state of our means?

In their convoys what message do they convey?
Could there be an urgency they need to attend to?
Yet midway their caucus some are half way present,
as us who perform the liturgy of giving way,
meek and in fear of being put away silently scribble-
these little notes in hope for better days.
Ayeh, can this literal jargon flame like a dragon?
Will it ever cause a fire or just be a bygone?

Some say let bygones be bygones ,
so maybe someday our troubles will go away.
we’ll have leaders that understand our ways;
the ways of “people,”  whose statistical data-
collected by slaves of their chatter tells them,
that a meal a day isn’t a must but a probability,
and that jobs for their lot are filled like tow lots,
and that the average man lives below poverty line,
below which the pauper lies glaring at greed
watching it drive by in empty convoy cars.

Ivy

Ivy

I often find comfort in my ways-
till you put me in my place.
Oh so cold your sting rushes through my skin,
and all those things that don’t belong to me;
Suddenly, bring me to me knees asking GOD

Why oh, why me?

Why do I walk till tomorrow yet my friend drives today?
Why do I empty dry pockets as some spill money on the floor?
Why do I feel the need for my friends collection of Adidas galore?
Why do I seek love here and there knocking door to door?
Why do I want beef yet I have plenty of  fresh beans?
Why do I fail to acknowledge patience and give into selfish whims?
Why do I struggle to compete instead grow and achieve milestones?
Why do I whine over small things yet god has big things in store?

Why do I want more?

Ivy, oh ivy,
why do you drive me crazy?

Why do we desire king size beds for us to slumber,
yet for some the pavement only gets colder?
Why do we want vehicles that move faster,
yet villagers walking bare feet are getting jiggers?
Why do we swirl and twirl our tongues like Oliver twist,
to binge in feasts as if we lack food like those on streets
Why do we strive to achieve the "finer things,"
yet paupers have no access to basic needs?

Why do we want more?

Ivy, oh Ivy…
Why do you dive us crazy?

You rush through our blood
like lava down a valley-
burning all that makes us feel;
content and with contempt-
you temp us to seek what we don't need,
yet what we want is an illusion of need….

Ivy, oh Ivy,
You're killing me with your poison.
Envy is the enemy;
let me be, let us be!

Can you move the world?

Can you direct and manipulate your jargon,
to speak vibes to the masses and move them-
make them lay down their tools to join your wagon,
as you speak to their hearts and make them spark?

Can you shoot into the mind of a solider,
make him jump out a plane into chute?
In which as he glides dead to the mind,
and deaf to the stunning sound of guns,
he lives only to kill a man poisoned as he.

Can you con a man from being a devil to a saint?
Preach words of saints that make his evil faint,
paint his heart clean from the danger of being vain;
uplift him! Make him repent, and say Amen!

Can you drive a slug from bed as it lay fast asleep?
Make it snail out of bed and dawdle to trade-
to barter what it made from nail and hammer,
in order to honour the cost of bread and butter?

Can you drive fear out of a weary heart?
make it run out with it's hefty baggage-
as if to escape a coming deluge,
only to make way for David courage.

Can you lure riches of the poor and wealthy?
Make them cash in and bow down to your wishes,
as you preach and convince them of the unknown-
that moves mountains like faith and hope.

Can you move the world??

WAKE UP! AFRICA (sleeping child)

WAKE UP, sleeping child, wake up.

Sieve your African freshness-
infected by Caucasian beauty,
and persuasive Asian invasion.

Wake up and see the orange hue spew-
far from the east coupled by morning dew,
on fresh grassland in glorious morning anew.

wake up and feel the morning breeze,
the world calm, peaceful, and at ease.
before rising dust and sun creeping out trees.

Wake up early to face new dawn,
let the sleeping dogs toss, turn, and yawn,
as you conquer those that use you like a pawn,

Wake up, wake up, wake up!

Rise and call dibs on your morning blessing,
before morning peace awakens evil doing-
to loom like darkness yet the sun is shining.

Rise for even if you sold most of your gold,
you have distinct minds of wisdom untold,
minds more valuable than that which you sold.

Rise and shine instead of bump and grind in pubs and clubs
that keep you up all night in a trance leaving you down and drub,
hindering you from work and seeking God in religious hub.

Rise and set yourself to run this timed race,
for you were born into a mortal human race
and from birth, your cry; a whistle to commence.

Rise sleeping child and keep up with the pace,
left behind you'll be nothing but a disgrace-
lonely, weary, teary in the worlds cold embrace.

Eat or be eaten, conquer or be conquered,
lead or be lead, squander or be squandered,
live or help others live as you are fostered,

Rise and find something to live for
Something to fight for, something to die for,
For if you have nothing to keep you alive
You might as well lay fast asleep….

Rise for you are treasure stored in a chest.
Unlock your potential, let them see you shine,

Autumn falls.

Autumn and I we're-
leaves off the same tree.
when she blossomed,
we fell for each other.

When wind took a toll-
I watched her go,
and winter picked me up,
in its ice cold palm.

I'm now stuck here-
glad that I met her yet sad,
for I'm about to crack,
in this ice cold palm.

I have hope in spring,
its rains are a testimony-
for release of pain and agony;
a chance for me to testify.

I wish I had you Autumn,
I'd have loved to kill for you,
a beautiful flower in the chill,
as buzzing bee picked its pollen.

To hold you by your hand,
roll over the green meadow,
smile and let tears of joy roll,
woe, you left me all alone.

Summer will come,
it'll make me scream;
 "MAYDAY MAYDAY,
this heat is not for lovers, 
at least I'm all alone."

Ayeh, how will I rest-
these troubled eyes,
whose tears will dry-
in short summer nights?

Woe, I'm still frozen in winter,
awaiting your arrival, autumn, 
eager for your season of love-
to blossom and fall again.

Johnny walker.

I'm drunk again on johnny blue,
having caught a case of mad blues,
Ayeh, with this bottle I will swig,
and write my blues into sparkling gold.


Humpty dumpty I was feeling empty,
sometimes you trip, sometimes you fall,
I often fall on this uncertain life trip,
so I go out drinking to fill my shell.

It's hard to see the rocks that make us trip

Life is so uncertain. it's no wonder
we can't predict the rocks that make us trip.
and fall hard to the ground as we wander-
it's how I staggered to these words...

Love an armour with drama,
covers your heart like a bullet proof vest,
makes you feel comfy yet can cause you trauma-
when you close your eyes and get hit by lies.

Sometimes we get bewildered as we worry
'cause things we love make us sea sick and sink,
yet we're a smart lot all we need is to keep afloat,
so we can sail and keep on rocking boat.

So when I'm down sometimes,
I just keep drinking n drinking!
So no matter how much I'm tripping,
I never hang over to feel sombre.

I sipped on a fine brand of Johnny walker,
and despite my walking stick from many falls-
it's the only reason I'm still walking forth.