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..."