Oluvanyumma (Afterwards)

Mummy heavy in the belly
carried a baby in her tummy,
given to her by baby daddy,
till the baby came to join the family...

Oluvanyumma lwe kyo,
tutambuza ebigere byenkere,
netu gwa mukidiba kyensi,
netuwuga kuba tutya okufa!

Nanti babah bamaze otuzaala...
Ngawo tutandisa okuza enjala,
nga mama yatulissa munjuba,
aliinze, muguminkiriza paka wetukula!

Being young was easy,
they'd breast feed you,
serve and heed to your needs
and all was done as you please,

Till it's time for you to join school-
before you actually know,
you're going to be in it forever...
Only to attain vast knowledge
without the tools to apply it.

Some for some reason love it,
others dread the first day onward,
ayeh, we live through and through-
till we make our way out.

Oluvanyumma lwe kyo,
tutambuza ebigere byenkere,
netu gwa mukidiba kyensi,
netuwuga kuba tutya okufa!

Nanti abamu tubatulowoza,
biwede kumbe byakatandika,
ateh nga abambu babikowa-kowa dah!
Bagala wuga mu maazi mawanvu!

Only to join the University system,
some unaware of what they want to pursue,
others out of free will opt to cheat to success,
it's mess I tell you these "cards we're dealt."

Others follow an orthodox path,
taking on their serene passions
becoming alienated from the norm of society,
till one day they accomplish their goals.

Within this time, desires grow,
most are sexually inquisitive,
so giving birth becomes a norm,
and celibacy is a known myth,

While imbibing in drugs, partying-
celebrating fulfilment in nothing.
are strategies to subdue dreadful reality,
pursued on this quest of many roads...

Out of which; only some graduate,
while others re-do failed papers,
for the "success system" is against them,
as if it's a clear cut measure or determinant-
yet the variables all play against uncertain odds..

Oluvanyumma lwe kyo,
tutambuza ebigere byenkere,
netu gwa mukidiba kyensi,
netuwuga kuba tutya okufa!

Awo nga tweyongedeyo,
amazi gafuse mawanvu Nyoo!
Bano tebakyali baano,
abamu balowoza tokyafayo,
naye nga bambi ensi ekunyize olimugezako!

You now need a job and you pray to lord,
but can barely work as hard as Job.
Your busy parents did a fine job of raising you,
some of your friends are living the "good life,"
bali mu motooka zabwe ba vuumya goodlyf.

Some can barely afford a pair of jeans,
yet struggle daily to live over and above their means.
Then your parents start passively scolding you,
asking you what next and if you could,
you'd just stay home it's the safest place...

Ayeh, they want you to grow up,
you've graduated and they need you to show up,
to show them that their education has paid off.
I call it theirs because they invest in it-
with hopes that it will yield returns...

So you send in your applications,
while others are being employed,
to run family businesses or because-
they know the who and what of Kampala...

Your friends start asking you why you're lost,
your love life is busy hanging on the cliff;
the pregnancy scares are real,
you're worried about your competition
somewhere out there in Makindye...
That's cashing or filling in more than you ever will;
basically, you're stressed out but you hide behind a smile
because the world doesn't entertain the weak!

Oluvanyumma lwe kyo,
tutambuza ebigere byenkere,
netu gwa mukidiba kyensi,
netuwuga kuba tutya okufa!

Awono, abamu bazade,
babakuziza bafuse bazade,
abamu tebwaakede bakyebase,
abala bakuba byeyo ensi fena etunyize,
abamu ebirabo batulide,
aga abala bakolo na mbiiro ensi bajitide!

Having kids is always a new and scary experience,
but I've been told by the "old,"
there's a way to handle it all;
after all, after first time you've crossed "the line."

The worrying part is getting married,
especially in these times where trust is an issue,
and love's been nipped in the bud and superseded by lust.
But, the society expects you to marry,
have a wonderful family and stable career

Yet jobs are scarce and partners are meagre...
Nonetheless, you start to hear about "kwanjula's,"
the baby mama and baby daddy drama,
how your friend has become a second wife,
and for some reason your growing apart from family.

You're going to burials every changing season,
some people are getting fired and rehired,
people have turned gay, many are starving,
others have "made it," most have faked it,
everything is moving so fast! (EH!)


Ayeh, you know what,
time will always fly by...
whether you keep up or you don't,
whether you get a job or your broke,
whether you're the richest out there,
whether you have ten kids or two,
or whether you waste away your life,
It'll will always fly by,

It's that one constant man can't constraint,
the other is towards where time is chasing us...

Ensonga yoku tontoma kuno eri emu,
ebyensi olusi bebeera bizibu,
naye olusi feh abeteka mubizibu,
naye mbakubiriza, mubera baguminkiriza,
ateh temuvuganya nensi koba yo olusi-
etambuza speed ya yiri yiri!
Nolwekyo, kola kyokola tofanga kubantu,
kubanga byokola obikolelah gwe!
Nante, bulyomu kunsi asubidwa okufa,
neera temutya, kale ko mutye ensi tujilese tutya?
Bana bajukira mubulungi oba,
baja ba bekuba obwama nti tumuwonye?!

Neyanziza, neyanzege,
mukama abakumeh.

Past the shore

It's intriguing how life is bitter-sweet.
One minute it's sweet,
the next you've dipped your feet-
into chills of bitter cold,
You're feeling under the weather-
under which weakness lives-
and you're its mistress,
so you cuddle her like a pillow,
hoping to find warmth,
hoping to find warmth...

I journal this for you, boo.
for you were feeling blue.
If you look past the shore,
you'll visualise and realise
that sad times often rise then demise...
Like the trembling bellow below the sea.
which hits with one selfish blow; ayeh
affects the whole sea which-
metaphorically consists of those around ye.
At the end of the day it settles,
and tides calm like clams.
So love with all your emotion,
and always look past the shore
if you forget the nature within you.

We are like the seas and oceans.
Deep with emotions that to rise like raging tides,
bubble with joy for a surfer to enjoy a ride,
and calm down in need of peace of mind.

The bench and the wayfarer

It was about three in afternoon,
as sun burnt the ground.
The smell of roast earth,
oozing in the atmosphere...

Dried leaves surround edges,
of the path way I strolled on
And above, tendrils and green foliage-
hang onto branches for their dear lives.

I was swamped by my cubical work,
so I went out for a smoke and a breath of air.
The irony of this amused me but my lungs,
selfish as I've made them wanted it all...

So I laid my newspapers on the lone bench,
lit my intoxicant, lay my hand over head,
and made peace with my body and mind.
then without chain, I walked back to my slave chamber.

wrought for thought

Wrought for thought.

Short of reality,
I stare at my phone,
appreciating a portrait,
of moss green canopies,
holding onto spring leaves-
dabbled by the evening sun,
beneath which lay a shadow;
harbouring drive by travellers,
who hath not seen the marvellous-
beauty painted by our lord Almighty...

I wish she... ( Lyrics to one of my songs)

I wish she, could see my love,
it sparkles likes the moon at night,
it dances like a flame of light,
I wish she, could see my love...

If  it were tangible, it'd probably kill her. 

She's a red light district and I'm attracted to her,
it says stop but all I want to do is go,
she's a lonely cliff and I just want to fall,
but her suspense it holds me up in the air,
how I wish she was a moth to my flame,
but all she does is buzz around me like a bee.

I wish she could see my love,
it sparkles likes the moon at night,
it dances like a flame upon a candle light,
I wish she could see my love...

I'm a light house, she's the sea and she can't see me,
yet I send her beams shining on her shore,
why she let's me stay is pretty much a mystery,
'cause she won't let me see what's underneath her sea,
it must be fear that makes her think I'd leave her empty,
yet I'm docked to stay; a dead boat by her bay.

I wish she, could see my love,
it sparkles likes the moon at night,
it dances like a flame of light,
I wish she could see my love...

she's a broken bridge and won't let me walk her,
yet I'd fix in a her in a heartbeat if she'd let me,
if we were travellers I would meet her at the cross roads,
with flowers in my hand and cannabis to smoke,
but she's a dead end if I move fast I might crash,
I hope her walls crack and they let me in to stay

I'm driving really fast, and she can't see me,
I'm hoping that I crash, and then she heals me,
I'm gambling with love, yet its uncertain,
but for her I will die; at least I won't stay...

I wish she, could see my love,
it sparkles likes the moon at night,
it dances like a flame of light,
I wish she could see my love...

Love charade [Duet performance piece by Hawa and Ibrahim]

Love charade [Duet performance piece by Hawa and Ibrahim]

How do you fight for your opponent?
One playing hardball on all your moves-
blocking out your attempts to drive in?

When do you know you've got the one
when actually they don't want to be?
They act like priorities in your life,
you prioritise them hence forth;
but they've called dibs on your back seat-
yet the co-driver seat is vacant,
and you wouldn't tell them;
you don't give free rides,
you're too in love to utter a word,
that'll get them out their gourd.

How do you tell someone,
you're beautiful; but, that's not it!
I mean, we could have cute babies,
that look like willow and Jaden;
Ayeh, we don't want them getting "F's" in reality!

It's wrong to walk into people's lives,
and not ask how they feel or where their emotions are...
It's like walking into a jungle thinking,
you're going to be lion in their wild, wild, wild jungle heart!

God must have abandoned us to play this game called love...

The worst players are those with a competitive spirit,
trying to win every game to turn out as "player-players."
walking around with their gang of hooligans unaware-
their Lebron has a soft spot for one of the cheer leaders...

Yet the cheer leading chicks also have female spirit,
despite engaging in cat fights due to love bites from hooligans,
but when it gets down to throwing that "love ball,"
they play guys pants off and Mary luswata reports the story...

A soft spot is the kryptonite in these games and fights.
if two opponents fall prey to their weaknesses, collide and draw.
it's a perfect match! But, if one is superior than the other,
it's an unfair ball game and someone's bound to get hurt!

Love and reality are not synonymous.
love wants us to sing along in harmony,
reality wants us to quit the auto tune BS,
and come to terms with the fact that most of us can't sing!

Omukwano gwafe gwa mageero,
that's why we're often on similar paths
that have got us writing poetry day by day...

Have you ever had your armoured heart,
struck so damn hard by a charms' dagger?
Even before the tip of it is pointed at you?
But each heart chamber gets enchanted!

Omutiima ne gufuna amaalo...

You get all mushy, close to tears and in fear
you're losing yourself passionately,
to a being made so wonderfully,
but it's too late, you've been squeezed and sieved;

bakukamude nga aktuunda!

Sentenced to house arrest in your heart,
on your thoughts like a bullet proof vest-
as if protecting them from anything else.

Then you wonder who sentenced them to your heart and thoughts?
Yet you've been criminal minded going against the laws of love...

Then you start asking them to take you,
you make promises that it will count.
you ask them to let you in,
allow them to loosen you up,
to tour the contours of your physique
to accept your plea and promise not to flee.
to be your shadow in the dark especially-
on these lonely streets of Kla that have no street lights...

Then you ask them to say something for you've said it all...
you spoke in song yet can't sing at all,

Going to join the players league #NO love allowed. 

and they are looking at you struck and in awe-
they don't love you and its not their fault!

It's just not you they want to play with,
so you've lost the game and it hurts, it hurts.

So it seems we are attracted to things that hurt us,
IT'S LIKE WE ENJOY THE PAIN!
Ironically, it's not what we're looking for...

You want something they can't give you,
they want something you can't give them,
you both want what you can't have...

That's why her and I are seated on the bench
waiting to join the play off season,
so we can become "player-players."



Special shout out to Hawa Kimbugwe 

Is this what you want?

(A desolate Home)
Is this what we want?

Running from the only place you call home,
fleeing scorching heat and consuming penury,
having reaped apart the ozone and made it war-torn,

Is this what we want?

Sharing diarrhoea in blue GM Tumpeco mugs,  
a wild fire of disease as if we're not already morbid-
dwelling in inhumane greed distorting economic activity,

Is this what we want?

Living on the planet like match sticks in a matchbox,
God said fill the globe so we've unleashed libido-
to multiply in number and then divide in unity,

Is this what we want?

Sleeping nude for it is hot as balls,
their resting temperature is 92-97°. 
mosquitoes will rejoice in our nudist colony,

Is this what you want?

Sleepless nights amid dreadful buzzing sounds. 
cultivated swamps spewing swarms of mosquitoes,
malaria like a holocaust taking worthy lives.

Is this what we want?

Tree watching in your house made of fine veneer, 
rock climbing in five star malls, fishing in aquariums,
bird watching only in the history of Nat Geo wild,

Is this what we want?

Seeing roses and flowers in our phone memories,
or in names of daughters Rosa and tulip,
as mother earth ails and woes over her deceased, 

Is this what we want?

Cars morphing into boats sailing afloat flash floods,
cows and goats swimming like dogs dropped in ponds,
you've seen this out in new Orleans and down in Bwaise,

Is this what we want?

Small things leading to big things-
one cut tree; draught; conflict; war
horrid draught led to heinous war in Dafur,

Is this what we want?

Fixing cracked up and buckled driveways,
run down homes and broke bridges,
why greater need yet pot holes are unfilled,

Is this what we want?

Failing to plant seed over densely infested land, 
buried in polythene bags, bottles, airtime cards,  
Veblen goods we purchase to make us feel conceited, 

Is this what we want?

Envisage a raging sun after surviving ice age. 
yet when things burn- remnants are ashes.
I'd rather be preserved than cause the irreversible?

Is this what we want?

Four wives, one season...

I understand females in the world are more,
But honestly, I don't want to be a male whore.

Don't get me wrong, I want options like Heffner
and a play house where I can play kwepena
without actually having to hit on her-
yet still stand the chance to get with her...

Or them... :)

And then there's a lot of things that tickle my fancy
like chicks with no weaves or baggage that's heavy to heave,
ladies with no hair that look and rap like Eve
and when it comes to soccer they can play all evening.

I want a woman that can cook, clean and protect me like a mukiga,
But I have to say this carefully away from Fahima,
the feminist general that'll take me for a crazy individual
asking for too much yet I meet her half way as I hunch back.

Most times, I also want a woman that can do what I do,
so as we spoon in the room we can share the same food,
literally rhyming in poetry as we gradually get in the mood
where the moon will be our only witness as she moans n croons

Cock-A--Doodle-GoOOD!

God! I wish- I could- have them- all...
But its impossible! Its like asking Steve hawking-
to try and not look like he is gawking
or maybe just to try a little bit of dancing...

And I'm not poking at his disability,
the truth hurts and puts most of us out of ease.
It's like when I'm flirting I'm like geez nigga please,
you can't last five minutes and there you are trying to tease.

But that's the truth to me cause I barely get enough training,
so four wives in four seasons is a deal breaker,
Ayeh four wives at the same damn time is a jail encounter!
and if you ask me, I can attest and tell you about my father.

Although, that's not my story to tell,
I'm just out here trying to live my "pre-ordained tale"
in which I hope is a fairy tale of some kind of forever-
yet forever makes me wonder if she'll /they'll love me any better...

I want to be.[performance piece]

I want to be SLIM, For to be slim; 
supremacy lies in me! 
The hope is you see- 
I'm already from Alkebulan;
the mother land and not Babylon; 
therefore, I'm proud heir to a throne 
of supremacy having been born- 
in this mighty kingdom where poetry, 
is gold marrow rocking in our bones.

Funny 

I know white guys that know guys like me, 
that think black guys are stupid!
Crazy I think black guys like me know that 
their are white guys that are stupid!
Which puts us in between and makes us twins 
because we shares genes which therefore means- 
we're all stupid! Yet the truth is we are all ingenious... 

Ayeh

I want to be a competitor because 
competition makes me better 
but i want to be unlike the shilling 
that's grinding and milling negative feelings 
among people that could probably kill for a shilling 
for they are living on the ceiling and now the sky rocketing billing! 

Disaster!

Albeit, I want to compete with those that aren't elite-
like Lucifer the true deter who strums my heart like a guitar,
yet if I skinned him and wore him like fur, 
I'd boss to success in this duniya.

Therefore

I want to be one not two not three,
so if I made it to four I'd moon walk back to one.
But everyone wants to be the one so in turn,
I will be nil nothing until my empty soul-
receives its blessing 'til I am one with God.

For 

I don't want to be a tourist of tragedy,,
caught in an abyss of jealousy, 
yet I bought tickets to addis,
for I was running from habits,
where people quick as mating rabbits,
hamper their only hobbies hating-
on secret opponents that barely know of it!


I want to be happy like a hippie-
till you're like really? 
why is this guy acting like a hilly billy,
doing silly nilly willy yet really,
what is the deally yet ideally-
this could get me a milli to take to my family, hihi

I want to a funny guy so I can spread infectious joy
but I'm no Chris rock that lucky mother; lover.
Oh well, at least I strive to be an inspiring, 
So hear me out mother, father, sister, lover, 
brother from another mother, 
In life we often desire to barter trade for better-

Do you often wonder why whatever we have, 
puts us under the weather yet if we seek shelter, 
under those that overshadow us we can never be better!

For example 

I'd also like to have Selena for dinner,
but she often catches a whiff of my reefer-
then as I quiver from the fuel used as preserve 
things start to differ for she hates smokers, 
and their bad breath that lingers...

So I am loser and I excuse her,
for instead of helping me get better, 
she leaves me wither!

I want to be so many things, 
but I can only be me! 
A newer updater version of the old me. 

For...

I am

The prototype

The names Chuck, Chuck Yagwe.

I'm relatively an intellectual

With a hint of love that's retro

'Cause they say the old didn't let go.

I'm programmed to entertain,

coded to cook and clean,

buy flowers on my way home,

and take care of kids when I'm home alone.

I participate in conversation,

listen diligently rather than hear.

never respond vehemently,

and handle my lady with fragile care.

When asked I plate my lady's hair

in twists, swaz, tuts and do's of relative gist.

For no reason I buy gifts for my lady

unlike the average man that gifts after being shady...

I'm hardworking, smart, and ambitious

Ayeh I also make time for chemistry's art.

I'm funny like the comedian Kevin hurt

but tall enough for a romantic tip toe kiss.

I'm manly like Hugh Jackman

yet cute like Channing Tatum,

I'm a close to a hopeless romantic

yet have aspects of commando dramatics.

Sometimes I sing like ed sheeran

when I'm out on candle light dates.

and when I'm with my lady and her mates,

I turn my swag on and rap like Jay z.

I don't piss on the toilet sit,

that wasn't programmed to fit,

I sit to piss instead of play the game of miss

so at night my miss takes a comfort piss.

I make kamsutra love to my woman,

she crafted me with the right "torpedo",

not too big and with just the right wiggle,

so when I shoot the results are explosive!

I don't watch football, I watch cook shows,

but I'm sporty when its time to act naughty.

I don't have female friends, only a "mother"

But I twitch and malfunction when I see a "shawty"

I open doors, barely have flaws

But recently I started to drop jaws

when a voluptuous woman draws me...

I fear I might be male-functioning

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..."