Tuesday, 1 October 2019
I have a pen that constantly vomits.
A magic pen that vomits a magic ink of life and death.
This pen of mine writes stories of joining and breaking.
The magic ink of love and hate in the same page and sometimes sentence.
The pen of greed and honesty, truth and lies.
My pen writes about clouds and numbers like 9 and 69.
This is the ink of the gods and demons that tells beautiful stories of animals like dogs with styles that humans ape and celebrate.
This pen is a masterpiece, a crazy mix of thirst and quenching of the same by the same source of ink.
My pen writes with eternal ink, stories of beautiful sounds and crazy ones, songs, and moans of life and death, joy and pain, weird sweetness, bitten lips and shut eyes, confusion and pandemonium,
tales of feelings and strong things words cannot express.
Oh, how I love what this pen is.
The ink from my pen tells tales of healing and heartaches, pain and heartbreaks victory and loses, defeats and conquests, laughter and tears.
I have a pen that writes beautiful stories of life at the beginning and sad ones of death in the process in the same breath.
My pen writes stories of successful farmers and planters and painful ones of failed farmers and barren gardens.
My pen is a masterpiece of sorts, a gift from the gods, a tool for praise and ridicule.
Oh, ye sages, philosophers and wise men of this age, can you tell me what my pen is?
Can you tell me why my ink should be as mixed as this?
Oh, ye men who live right where God is, can you intervene in the heavens and bless this pen and ink?
Can you prophesy what my pen is and drop a word of knowledge may be to save this mortal son of a man from pens, vomit, and ink?
The pen holder thanks all of you for the stories and written manuscripts.
The pen is appreciative of the readers of these pen-ish stories that grope in darkness attempting to find out what this pen is.
#TheMusingsOfaMadMan
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#TheChildishStoriesOfa34YearOld
camistarespoken.blogspot.com
MOURNING GLORY
On a dark morning,
I found myself mourning,
As he forcefully stripped me of my glory,
And walked away with the trophy,
Painted in crimson red
Like the lips of a pride of lions
After a hearty meal of a helpless buffalo.
Years later I still mourn my robbed glory.
For a moment of heaven,
He gave me a million hells,
Painful hallelujahs and amens,
As he moaned in the glory that morning
While I mourned my glory.
Countless years later,
I still mourn in glory
Because moaning glory,
Has never left my memory.
I hate moaning glory
For it reminds me to mourn my
violently robbed glory.
#TheMusingsOfaMadMan
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#TheChildishStoriesOfa34YearOld
camistarespoken.blogspot.com
I found myself mourning,
As he forcefully stripped me of my glory,
And walked away with the trophy,
Painted in crimson red
Like the lips of a pride of lions
After a hearty meal of a helpless buffalo.
Years later I still mourn my robbed glory.
For a moment of heaven,
He gave me a million hells,
Painful hallelujahs and amens,
As he moaned in the glory that morning
While I mourned my glory.
Countless years later,
I still mourn in glory
Because moaning glory,
Has never left my memory.
I hate moaning glory
For it reminds me to mourn my
violently robbed glory.
#TheMusingsOfaMadMan
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#TheChildishStoriesOfa34YearOld
camistarespoken.blogspot.com
Monday, 12 August 2019
Everyone Loves When Death Is A Keyboard And Screen Joke: The Suicide And Cyber-bullying Mystery
A man posted on his public Facebook status that he was going
to kill himself. 90℅ of his friends liked the status, 5% reacted with laughs,
and it was of course quite hilarious. A further 4% reacted with love and an odd
1% reacted with sad then the comments began pouring in torrents.
His 1000 plus friends trolled, cajoled and bullied him. The
experts among them noted that those who actually kill themselves do not say it
in public, a further group of experts told him off to his face on that social
media wall of his that he is a chronic attention seeker merely looking for
likes and sympathy, a manipulative cry baby who needed to grow up and stop
walking in baby diapers.
The religious chaps in his circle told him that Jesus had
paid it all, he only needed to trust in him, in fact they summarized it all in
three words of encouragement to him, "it is well, " never mind that
none of them even bothered to find out what was actually wrong with him or the thing that was eating him up. The motivational speakers among his mutual
friends bombarded him with stale copied quotes from memes, books, and sermons
they had read or heard. They told him, "What doesn't kill you only makes
you stronger."
Then the strangers and public opinion experts' knowledgeable
in all things joined the thread. They laughed, booed, mocked and cheered him to
go ahead and do it. Some offered him the best ropes and the strongest poison
brands if he needed any, others, on the other hand, offered him YouTube videos
and tutorials on 1000 ways to die, the avid readers shared with him expert
books on how to kill yourself painlessly. It was a joke to them.
12 hours later they woke up to the news that he was no more.
Condolences came from all quarters, his silent friends suddenly found their
voices, the cyberbullies became the most concerned, and they were the most
sympathetic in the comments section. An MPESA pay-bill account was formed to
contribute money for a good send-off of a great friend and icon. Candlelit
vigils were held, streets closed and matches in his honor held daily.
People poured moving tributes from all over the world,
conversations about suicide with him as the case study went viral. I just woke
up from that dream and realized friendship is overrated, sometimes all those
you have called your bosom friends are Mike Sonkos` who will expose your
nakedness for all and sundry to see when you are completely down and helpless
therefore don't sweat the small stuff. Live your life, care for those who do
and forget those who don't, take a walk through a dark tunnel, when you come
out on the other side to see the light, you will be clear on who your friends
were, don't be sorry if you found none, that is life. Funerals too are
overrated so don't worry much about yours. The crowd will come through when you
cross that line so why not just live and let live?
Mental health discussions need to be taken out of the closet
and brought to the public table. It is a high time the society began talking
about suicide openly and not as a taboo or a shameful topic that would rather
be handled like a hot potato.
#TheMusingsOfAMadMan
#TheLoudThoughtsOfASilentPen
#Camistare2019
#ThePoet
#TheChroniclesOfDepression
#WoundsAndScars
#UnfinishedBusiness
camistarespoken.blogspot.com
image:www.libyanexpress.comcamistarespoken.blogspot.com
Tuesday, 2 July 2019
WHEN I DIE
How I want it when I die
One day when I finally die, I want to be buried within twenty four hours, with a simple casket, did I say buried? No! I don't want to be buried, I want to be cremated, and my ashes can be put in an urn only if my surviving family wishes so as a souvenir to them but if not, not even those ashes should be taken away. They should be left for the wind to blow away to paradise.
I don't want every Tom, Dick and Harry at my funeral, it should be exclusively for my immediate family, nuclear family, extended few who are actually family and not some crazy relations tied to me with nothing more than a name or a bloodline. At the crematorium, I want only my true few friends there, not people who claim to be my friends, that list should or may turn out to be as few as ten but I only want friends who have been friends to give me my last farewell, not people I have worked for or with, not people I go to church or fellowship with and nothing more, not people I went to school or sat in the same class with and shared nothing more. I want my true friends and actual family at my final farewell.
I want a simple funeral, nothing expensive, nothing flashy and nothing to write home about. My funeral should not be more important than the life I currently live. I will deeply appreciate and literally rest in peace if at that funeral people don't out do each other in sending public relations condolences, if "sad" friends suddenly pop out of everywhere when I actually never had any while alive. I will deeply appreciate if at that funeral people don't say things about me that they have never told me now, in fact, if it was up to me, the funeral would be a quiet one with no words spoken.
I know many will disagree with my desire to be cremated, they will talk about things like my culture and religion and what it allows and or disallows but my wish still stands. I dare state that there is always a first time for everything and I don't mind being the first in line. On the day I die, don't burry me, cremate my useless remains. I want simplicity, I want peace, and I want truth when I finally cross over. If at worse you cannot cremate me within twenty four hours or at most seventy two, throw my body for the hyenas at Masaai Mara or the crocodiles of River Nzoia or let it feed the hungry shacks of the ocean for that would make me more useful.
Bottom line is, my dead body is of no use and should not be treated better than the man I am now when I still have breath in my nostrils. On the day I go over to the other world, just burn me to ashes. My heart, soul and spirit will thank you greatly from the other side. I don't want to be buried when I die, I want to be cremated.
And this is my final will.
#TheMusingsOfaMadMan
#TheLoudThoughtsOfASilentPen
#WishesOfTheLivingDead
#Camistare2019
www.camistarespoken.blogspot.com
One day when I finally die, I want to be buried within twenty four hours, with a simple casket, did I say buried? No! I don't want to be buried, I want to be cremated, and my ashes can be put in an urn only if my surviving family wishes so as a souvenir to them but if not, not even those ashes should be taken away. They should be left for the wind to blow away to paradise.
I don't want every Tom, Dick and Harry at my funeral, it should be exclusively for my immediate family, nuclear family, extended few who are actually family and not some crazy relations tied to me with nothing more than a name or a bloodline. At the crematorium, I want only my true few friends there, not people who claim to be my friends, that list should or may turn out to be as few as ten but I only want friends who have been friends to give me my last farewell, not people I have worked for or with, not people I go to church or fellowship with and nothing more, not people I went to school or sat in the same class with and shared nothing more. I want my true friends and actual family at my final farewell.
I want a simple funeral, nothing expensive, nothing flashy and nothing to write home about. My funeral should not be more important than the life I currently live. I will deeply appreciate and literally rest in peace if at that funeral people don't out do each other in sending public relations condolences, if "sad" friends suddenly pop out of everywhere when I actually never had any while alive. I will deeply appreciate if at that funeral people don't say things about me that they have never told me now, in fact, if it was up to me, the funeral would be a quiet one with no words spoken.
I know many will disagree with my desire to be cremated, they will talk about things like my culture and religion and what it allows and or disallows but my wish still stands. I dare state that there is always a first time for everything and I don't mind being the first in line. On the day I die, don't burry me, cremate my useless remains. I want simplicity, I want peace, and I want truth when I finally cross over. If at worse you cannot cremate me within twenty four hours or at most seventy two, throw my body for the hyenas at Masaai Mara or the crocodiles of River Nzoia or let it feed the hungry shacks of the ocean for that would make me more useful.
Bottom line is, my dead body is of no use and should not be treated better than the man I am now when I still have breath in my nostrils. On the day I go over to the other world, just burn me to ashes. My heart, soul and spirit will thank you greatly from the other side. I don't want to be buried when I die, I want to be cremated.
And this is my final will.
#TheMusingsOfaMadMan
#TheLoudThoughtsOfASilentPen
#WishesOfTheLivingDead
#Camistare2019
www.camistarespoken.blogspot.com
ONE DAY I WILL WRITE ABOUT THE LOVE I LOST
She loved me enough to walk away, loved me so deeply to let
go for that is how she put it. I always thought if she ever left I would die
and I was right because when she left I died to all that I ever lived for. It
all sounded like a joke or maybe to her it was, it must have been just another text, "Hi! I think we should
take a break" That's where we began. I didn't know it then but was to soon
find out first hand that the girl of my dreams actually loved me enough to know
that we had no future together. She could not see it, we could not be and she
was right. It was her last self-sacrificial act of unrequited love.
How could I be right when she knew what was best for both of us? The worst part of it was that she kept telling me it had nothing to do with me, it was all about her.
Soon I found myself hanging in the balance, dangerously
swerving at the edges of the stiff cliffs, tittering on the brinks of total
destruction, failing at all attempts to hold it together. I was officially
caught between a rock and a hard place. I was doomed if I communicated, doomed
if I didn't, doomed if I reached out and doomed if I didn't and then before I
knew it, everything went South and my whole life went with it. I remember the
countless nights I would sit in my darkroom with lights out and stare at my
phone, endless days I locked myself indoors, beneath the blankets for even
daylight depressed me, constantly hoping, praying, craving, longing for just a
text from her, battling within myself whether to send her one and offend her or
hold it still and die a little more inside for that love.
I remember those days when a "please call me" text would have meant more than a million pages of love poems or a million shillings MPESA message yet they never came, all I had were blank screens and painful aches that no medicine known to man can treat. For days I lived, ate and slept, walked absent-mindedly in the streets hoping for that vibration from my phone, checking it every time if maybe she had called and I didn't hear but she never called and I was damned if I called her. The further we grew asunder the deeper my heart craved for her arms or even just her voice. Even harsh abusive words from her over the phone would have healed my rotting wounds. I waited and waited for my dreams to come true but as the clock ticked only my nightmares became more profound. Reality finally dawned on me that she had actually left me, maybe for the love of a better man that is if men really love.
People tell me about hell but I have been somewhere worse, I don't think it scares me. Desperation became my most reliable friend, company and ever-present companion. Loneliness was more faithful to me than our undying love. All because I loved her and she were right when I was wrong.
The light within my soul went out, I ran in shame from the
light, retreated to a dark corner where my dead spirit could rest in peace away
from the prying eyes but those eyes, damn the eyes, they always found their way
to me. As I lost myself, everything else went with the man that I was yet I was
stuck. I was in a dilemma because even had I found the words, how do the dead
speak to the living? Can the living really understand what death feels like
even if the dead man found words to accurately relate his dead state? How do you
explain losing your mind to people who have theirs intact?
How does a dead man survive in the world of the living? Yet
there I was every rising sun trying to act warm and okay, swift and agile with
my dead cold corpse and stiff remains. Man must live, I kept telling myself
every single day.
One day I will talk about this pain but not even words can express it's depth, ferocity, and magnitude, those words are yet to be found. I am however wrong, I am still a child and a stupid one at that, a spoiled little kid without control of his own emotions that's why my broken pieces would still plead within, "Oh God but I love her" Kneel my broken being and scattered pieces and pray fervently to a God who had either gone on a honeymoon and switched off all his communication lines or plugged his ears with soundproofed headphones blaring loud music yet I never stopped. My broken pieces kept pleading my cause even in their state of nothingness, the bleeding mess and scattered pieces kept asking God, "But God I love her, please bring her back," and he never answered me. Oh poor silly me, how was I supposed to know that men never love? How was the naive me supposed to understand the gravity of the statements; "all men are........." "you men are.....?"
I guess only the love experts know it too well so I keep right-wrong with me to save you the agony of feeling a man's internal turmoil that should not even exist in the first place. I am still yet to find closure. It has been tricky because I still don't know exactly why she ever left, maybe I will never know but I will right my misled outlook and thank the heart that bled and healed, gift the soul that rose from the ashes, grease the bones that rose from the grave and salute the heart that recollected her broken pieces and thank her for being whole again. I owe my heart this story so I will let her tell it when she - my heart- finally gathers the guts to speak about what she went through. One day I will talk about the love I lost.
#TheMusingsOfAMadMan
#TheLoudThoughtsOfASilentPen
#Camistare2019
#ThePoet
#TheChroniclesOfDepression
#WoundsAndScars
#UnfinishedBusiness
Thursday, 30 May 2019
I WANT TO BE A BIG THIEF
I want to be a thief,
No! Not a thief, I want to be a big thief.
I want to be a big thief because
big thieves get a round of applause
while small thieves are hanged and roasted.
I want to be a big thief so that I can buy
justice when am caught.
I want to be a big thief so that the big laws
are against them when am above them.
I want to be a big thief so that I can control
the system, run the show, call the shots.
I want to be a big thief because I want
idiots to line the streets praising me
for stealing from them, I want pastors
to preach long sermons about God's
blessing with me as an example.
I want the TV stations, radio, newspapers,
blogs and social media to be a wash
with my story of rags to riches.
I want to give motivational talks on
hard work, smart work and god first crap.
I want to steal so much that I can't keep
count of it and be beyond the reach of
their touch.
I want to be a big thief who can pay
the hangman to hang himself when
he knocks at my door for a date with
the gallows.
I want to be a big thief because I need
to sit on the front seats in church,
I want to sit on the bishop's seat if I can
or at worse next to him in the throne
of glory.
I want the top layer, I want the thick soup
that only the most anointed partake.
I want to be the poster boy of success,
the reference point of success stories,
the epitome of miraculous hard work,
I want to get there and see you clap for
me because I made it.
I want you to clap for me for turning
charcoal into gold, eggs and chicks into
billions, water into wine and whatever.
I want to be such a big thief that when I
get arrested, I get VIP presidential escort
to the station in full glare of media cameras,
I want idiots I steal from to rush to my
defense and shout the famous "mtu wetu."
I want to be so rich that all systems get
chills when they even think of asking me
about the source of my wealth or nature
of my business.
I want to be so reach that the taxman pees
in his pants when my name is just mentioned.
I want to be a big thief because the
end justifies the means.
Hard work is overrated, intergrity is a
selective fallacy and honesty is a bag
of bullshit.
If you doubt me, go to the prison and
ask that poor honest convict serving
a lifetime in jail for a crime he was framed.
I want to steal from you until you
celebrate me and if you agree or object,
still shout your loudest amen.
Have faith with me and the Lord shall
bless you with handouts when I get
there.
I want to be a big thief so that when I
finally kick the overflowing bucket
I couldn't even finish eating from you
write in bold on my epitaph,
Here lies a great man, a hero, a legend,
He came, he saw and he conquered,
May he rest with the angels, here lies
a big thief who dared to dream and become.
I want children from all tribes and nations,
streets in my village and the cities to be
named after me,
I want my name on dillapidated public
schools and pathetic public hospitals
and I health centers.
I want a statue erected in my memory in
the heroes corner for future generations
after I am dead and gone.
I want the genius of my thievery to be
immortalized in song and dance,
books and scriptures.
I hope you understand why I want
to be a big thief.
I want to be a big thief.
May the day break.
#TheMusingsOfaMadMan
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#Camistare2019
© Camistare 2019
No! Not a thief, I want to be a big thief.
I want to be a big thief because
big thieves get a round of applause
while small thieves are hanged and roasted.
I want to be a big thief so that I can buy
justice when am caught.
I want to be a big thief so that the big laws
are against them when am above them.
I want to be a big thief so that I can control
the system, run the show, call the shots.
I want to be a big thief because I want
idiots to line the streets praising me
for stealing from them, I want pastors
to preach long sermons about God's
blessing with me as an example.
I want the TV stations, radio, newspapers,
blogs and social media to be a wash
with my story of rags to riches.
I want to give motivational talks on
hard work, smart work and god first crap.
I want to steal so much that I can't keep
count of it and be beyond the reach of
their touch.
I want to be a big thief who can pay
the hangman to hang himself when
he knocks at my door for a date with
the gallows.
I want to be a big thief because I need
to sit on the front seats in church,
I want to sit on the bishop's seat if I can
or at worse next to him in the throne
of glory.
I want the top layer, I want the thick soup
that only the most anointed partake.
I want to be the poster boy of success,
the reference point of success stories,
the epitome of miraculous hard work,
I want to get there and see you clap for
me because I made it.
I want you to clap for me for turning
charcoal into gold, eggs and chicks into
billions, water into wine and whatever.
I want to be such a big thief that when I
get arrested, I get VIP presidential escort
to the station in full glare of media cameras,
I want idiots I steal from to rush to my
defense and shout the famous "mtu wetu."
I want to be so rich that all systems get
chills when they even think of asking me
about the source of my wealth or nature
of my business.
I want to be so reach that the taxman pees
in his pants when my name is just mentioned.
I want to be a big thief because the
end justifies the means.
Hard work is overrated, intergrity is a
selective fallacy and honesty is a bag
of bullshit.
If you doubt me, go to the prison and
ask that poor honest convict serving
a lifetime in jail for a crime he was framed.
I want to steal from you until you
celebrate me and if you agree or object,
still shout your loudest amen.
Have faith with me and the Lord shall
bless you with handouts when I get
there.
I want to be a big thief so that when I
finally kick the overflowing bucket
I couldn't even finish eating from you
write in bold on my epitaph,
Here lies a great man, a hero, a legend,
He came, he saw and he conquered,
May he rest with the angels, here lies
a big thief who dared to dream and become.
I want children from all tribes and nations,
streets in my village and the cities to be
named after me,
I want my name on dillapidated public
schools and pathetic public hospitals
and I health centers.
I want a statue erected in my memory in
the heroes corner for future generations
after I am dead and gone.
I want the genius of my thievery to be
immortalized in song and dance,
books and scriptures.
I hope you understand why I want
to be a big thief.
I want to be a big thief.
May the day break.
#TheMusingsOfaMadMan
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#Camistare2019
© Camistare 2019
Sunday, 26 May 2019
MAKE LOVE TO ME
Open my heart, undress my mind,
lay bare my soul, unclothe my spirit,
make naked my body,
then lay me nude and unashamed
on your warm bed of love,
intoxicated by the sweet smell of roses
that comes from your breath.
I don't want to feel the physical things,
I want to feel things beyond my reach,
the intricate things the words of a poet's
pen cannot express or write about.
I want to lose myself and become another
being.
Unleash the animal within and make him
bark, pant and grown, make him scratch,
bite and choke if he can.
Touch me and take me to another world
with the magic of your finger tips,
Hold me in your arms and make the world
stop in the tightness of your embrace,
Look into my eyes and steal my soul with
the intensity of your love stare,
graze my skin and let it burn with the
sweetness of your magic lips,
unleash me and annihilate the shyness
within with the softeness of your sweet
words.
I am far too gone to contemplate a return,
so I will continue.
Standing at this point of no return,
I am staring at a moment that's divine.
A moment of magic, a moment of eternity
and only you can take me there.
I am right at the gates of heaven though
hell is not giving up without a fight.
I can see the throne of glory this morning
but the flames of hade are also fast approaching.
You are my only saviour.
Make Love to me and let me cross over to
paradise.
Take me to that please where time stops,
where nothing else exists but the magic
of your love and nothing else.
Make love to me.
There is an angel imprisoned within,
make him sing the heavenly tunes
that break free the chains and opens
the doors of this prison that he is in
to see him free.
There is a demon within,
make him scream and come out,
rush into the swine and drown
in eternal oblivion.
Make love to me and exorcise this legion.
There is a little child inside,
make him cry, laugh, play and feel.
Make him react, make him respond,
uncoil him.
Make love to me, make love to me
and free my soul.
Make love to me and bring back the
life I lost, the glory that went away,
the joy that left, the tears that ran dry,
the child that died and the angel that
was captured and barnished.
Make love to me until I forget myself,
until I feel nothing else but the magic
of the moment and the after taste of
the everlasting.
Make love to me and my soul shall be
at rest.
Make love to me and I shall rest in peace.
Make love to me.
#TheMusingsOfAMadMan
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#ThePoet
#Camistare2019
© Camistare 2019
lay bare my soul, unclothe my spirit,
make naked my body,
then lay me nude and unashamed
on your warm bed of love,
intoxicated by the sweet smell of roses
that comes from your breath.
I don't want to feel the physical things,
I want to feel things beyond my reach,
the intricate things the words of a poet's
pen cannot express or write about.
I want to lose myself and become another
being.
Unleash the animal within and make him
bark, pant and grown, make him scratch,
bite and choke if he can.
Touch me and take me to another world
with the magic of your finger tips,
Hold me in your arms and make the world
stop in the tightness of your embrace,
Look into my eyes and steal my soul with
the intensity of your love stare,
graze my skin and let it burn with the
sweetness of your magic lips,
unleash me and annihilate the shyness
within with the softeness of your sweet
words.
I am far too gone to contemplate a return,
so I will continue.
Standing at this point of no return,
I am staring at a moment that's divine.
A moment of magic, a moment of eternity
and only you can take me there.
I am right at the gates of heaven though
hell is not giving up without a fight.
I can see the throne of glory this morning
but the flames of hade are also fast approaching.
You are my only saviour.
Make Love to me and let me cross over to
paradise.
Take me to that please where time stops,
where nothing else exists but the magic
of your love and nothing else.
Make love to me.
There is an angel imprisoned within,
make him sing the heavenly tunes
that break free the chains and opens
the doors of this prison that he is in
to see him free.
There is a demon within,
make him scream and come out,
rush into the swine and drown
in eternal oblivion.
Make love to me and exorcise this legion.
There is a little child inside,
make him cry, laugh, play and feel.
Make him react, make him respond,
uncoil him.
Make love to me, make love to me
and free my soul.
Make love to me and bring back the
life I lost, the glory that went away,
the joy that left, the tears that ran dry,
the child that died and the angel that
was captured and barnished.
Make love to me until I forget myself,
until I feel nothing else but the magic
of the moment and the after taste of
the everlasting.
Make love to me and my soul shall be
at rest.
Make love to me and I shall rest in peace.
Make love to me.
#TheMusingsOfAMadMan
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#ThePoet
#Camistare2019
© Camistare 2019
Wednesday, 22 May 2019
I NEED RESCUE
Music is disturbing my head.
I am restless.
My soul is in deep turmoil.
I feel a pain I cannot find words to tell.
Yes I am in the middle of a fierce battle.
A part of me is bleeding,
a part of me is pleading,
pleading for justice or at least just one chance.
I am locked up.
I will explode if these chains don't let go.
The music inside me is screaming to burst open.
I need a release.
It's the only way I will survive.
The chains are killing me.
The voices are dimming my soul,
sapping the life of me,
This is killing me softly,
as the music remains unquenched
like deep love unrequited.
I am like a thirsty lover,
forced to live with the pain of eternal dryspell,
Torn apart from the very affection of my soul.
Damn! I need an outlet.
Art is suffocating me, chocking me,
killing me softly, giving me nightmares,
scary dreams of the after life.
Only she can save me, this sweet girl (music)
that I deeply love yet can't have.
Music will take me to my grave.
No! Not doing music will take me to my grave.
That is for certain,
because music is all I live for,
She is at the very soul of the life I live,
She is the heartbeat that keeps this system running.
In her company, I come to life,
I am me, I don't need to be someone else,
I don't need to pretend, I don't need to hide,
I don't need to be perfect before her,
I don't need to be strong when I should be weak,
I don't need a stone face when my tear glands
threaten to burst the at the seams
and release the floodgates within
that wash my soul clean of pain,
My cold insides spark to life and glow warm,
The wounds within get a healing balm.
She makes me kick to life,
Awakens the beast within,
And allows the baby inside to smile, cry and play.
I am insane, I know, but then again
I have never been normal and the harder I try to be,
the harder I keep failing.
How on earth can I be normal,
when normal is dead and gone?
I am an empty shell of the man I am,
lost in this maze tryingt to trace my way home.
I have a lot to say yet words cannot even form,
my lips vibrate but produce no single sound.
I have a billion feelings to express,
Yet they refuse to come out,
when I desperately want them to.
The strength within fails me,
when I desperately summon it.
Am I normal?
I don't know, I may never know,
maybe I will never know.
Is something wrong with me?
I honestly dont know this too.
Maybe if the music within came out,
I would get a glimpse of the answers,
I may somehow unravel the puzzle,
of this complex maze I have been lost inside for eons.
I need an outlet,
before the little life that remains inside
my sorry being fizzles out too,
before the feeble, little shinning light that is increasingly
dimming,
but still fighting hard to shine against all odds,
dies out too.
And, in it's place total darkness envelopes
the man I never got the chance to see and know.
The same blessing I was given is also my greatest curse,
my sweetest taboo I swear.
The creativity I never asked for, the unforgiving talent,
the spontaneous tunes, melodies, sounds and,
countless voices in my headhthat bother me endlessly,
yet not coming out are killing me softly,
like seeping blood taking away life from bleeding slit wrists.
or traditional incurable poison with no antidote,
or carbon monoxide from a jiko on a cold night,
as I like in my bed sleeping,
with my doors and windows closed,
Even my door and window curtains drawn to shut
out the world.
My soul is bleeding to death and I can't help it,
I feel helpless, I am drowning,
and I can't even cry for help as the current sweeps
me away.
The wounds caused by this music
that has been forced to die but refuses and fights back,
fights back harder than the slave masters chaining her.
If only I could just give her all up and be free,
of her intoxicating madness and grasp over me.
If only I could walk away from her painful sweetness,
If only I could put a stop to our liason and an end to this torture,
If only I could free my chained mind,
heart, body spirit and soul.
I would give up everything I have for that.
But how can I?
How can I when she is me and I am her?
How can I when giving her up would mean giving up me?
How can I when she is all I need?
How can I when live with the curse,
or is it the blessing of insanity of a creative mortal?
I walk with the curse of an abnormal being,
in a perfect society with perfect beings,
who are normal and ideal.
My only mistake, being abnormal and real,
in a world where real is twisted,
and the difference between real and unreal,
real and ideal as grey and unclear,
as the conflicts within my tortured soul.
Music will kill me if she doesn't get out.
I know how jealous she is, how strong,
how dangerous, how crazy she gets,
how mean and loving she is to me at the same time.
I may be overreacting but no!
I know it, I have seen it, I have tasted it, I know it.
I am silly, please forgive me, forgive my stupidity,
my futile attempts at being intelligent,
yet only managing to embarrass myself in public,
showing off my chronic ignorance and appalling stupidity.
Please forgive me, forgive me for her if not for me.
Forgive my unforgivable stupidity of dreaming and
creating nonsense in the real world.
But let me do just one thing, just one thing,
I know you will not understand but please I beg of you,
Let me make love to music just one more time.
This is the last time and I will bother you no more.
I will die silently with my dry spell and accept my fate.
Allow me to love her just one last time.
I find nothing left to live for with her gone.
And if I follow her without ever doing it,
please write this in my epitaph,
"here lies a man who failed,
a man who loved music and did nothing about it,
a man who fought her and lost.
Here lies a coward with a million songs he refused
to give to the music of his soul,
here lies a failure who refused to release
an infinite number of beautiful tunes that music gave him
as a memento of their undying love,
here lies a man who killed that love and killed himself too."
Write my epitaph in bold, make it golden,
make it large, ugly and conspicuous,
but make sure the writings in honor of music are beautiful,
that would be my last gift for her,
my silent eternal apology for failing her,
for betraying our complicated love affair.
Please write sweetly and beautifully in bold,
"HERE LIES A MAN WHO FOUGHT MUSIC AND LOST"
Then my tortured soul shall rest in peace.
#TheMusingsOfAMadMan
#TheLoudThoughtsOfASilentPen
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#ThePoet
©Camistare 2019
I am restless.
My soul is in deep turmoil.
I feel a pain I cannot find words to tell.
Yes I am in the middle of a fierce battle.
A part of me is bleeding,
a part of me is pleading,
pleading for justice or at least just one chance.
I am locked up.
I will explode if these chains don't let go.
The music inside me is screaming to burst open.
I need a release.
It's the only way I will survive.
The chains are killing me.
The voices are dimming my soul,
sapping the life of me,
This is killing me softly,
as the music remains unquenched
like deep love unrequited.
I am like a thirsty lover,
forced to live with the pain of eternal dryspell,
Torn apart from the very affection of my soul.
Damn! I need an outlet.
Art is suffocating me, chocking me,
killing me softly, giving me nightmares,
scary dreams of the after life.
Only she can save me, this sweet girl (music)
that I deeply love yet can't have.
Music will take me to my grave.
No! Not doing music will take me to my grave.
That is for certain,
because music is all I live for,
She is at the very soul of the life I live,
She is the heartbeat that keeps this system running.
In her company, I come to life,
I am me, I don't need to be someone else,
I don't need to pretend, I don't need to hide,
I don't need to be perfect before her,
I don't need to be strong when I should be weak,
I don't need a stone face when my tear glands
threaten to burst the at the seams
and release the floodgates within
that wash my soul clean of pain,
My cold insides spark to life and glow warm,
The wounds within get a healing balm.
She makes me kick to life,
Awakens the beast within,
And allows the baby inside to smile, cry and play.
I am insane, I know, but then again
I have never been normal and the harder I try to be,
the harder I keep failing.
How on earth can I be normal,
when normal is dead and gone?
I am an empty shell of the man I am,
lost in this maze tryingt to trace my way home.
I have a lot to say yet words cannot even form,
my lips vibrate but produce no single sound.
I have a billion feelings to express,
Yet they refuse to come out,
when I desperately want them to.
The strength within fails me,
when I desperately summon it.
Am I normal?
I don't know, I may never know,
maybe I will never know.
Is something wrong with me?
I honestly dont know this too.
Maybe if the music within came out,
I would get a glimpse of the answers,
I may somehow unravel the puzzle,
of this complex maze I have been lost inside for eons.
I need an outlet,
before the little life that remains inside
my sorry being fizzles out too,
before the feeble, little shinning light that is increasingly
dimming,
but still fighting hard to shine against all odds,
dies out too.
And, in it's place total darkness envelopes
the man I never got the chance to see and know.
The same blessing I was given is also my greatest curse,
my sweetest taboo I swear.
The creativity I never asked for, the unforgiving talent,
the spontaneous tunes, melodies, sounds and,
countless voices in my headhthat bother me endlessly,
yet not coming out are killing me softly,
like seeping blood taking away life from bleeding slit wrists.
or traditional incurable poison with no antidote,
or carbon monoxide from a jiko on a cold night,
as I like in my bed sleeping,
with my doors and windows closed,
Even my door and window curtains drawn to shut
out the world.
My soul is bleeding to death and I can't help it,
I feel helpless, I am drowning,
and I can't even cry for help as the current sweeps
me away.
The wounds caused by this music
that has been forced to die but refuses and fights back,
fights back harder than the slave masters chaining her.
If only I could just give her all up and be free,
of her intoxicating madness and grasp over me.
If only I could walk away from her painful sweetness,
If only I could put a stop to our liason and an end to this torture,
If only I could free my chained mind,
heart, body spirit and soul.
I would give up everything I have for that.
But how can I?
How can I when she is me and I am her?
How can I when giving her up would mean giving up me?
How can I when she is all I need?
How can I when live with the curse,
or is it the blessing of insanity of a creative mortal?
I walk with the curse of an abnormal being,
in a perfect society with perfect beings,
who are normal and ideal.
My only mistake, being abnormal and real,
in a world where real is twisted,
and the difference between real and unreal,
real and ideal as grey and unclear,
as the conflicts within my tortured soul.
Music will kill me if she doesn't get out.
I know how jealous she is, how strong,
how dangerous, how crazy she gets,
how mean and loving she is to me at the same time.
I may be overreacting but no!
I know it, I have seen it, I have tasted it, I know it.
I am silly, please forgive me, forgive my stupidity,
my futile attempts at being intelligent,
yet only managing to embarrass myself in public,
showing off my chronic ignorance and appalling stupidity.
Please forgive me, forgive me for her if not for me.
Forgive my unforgivable stupidity of dreaming and
creating nonsense in the real world.
But let me do just one thing, just one thing,
I know you will not understand but please I beg of you,
Let me make love to music just one more time.
This is the last time and I will bother you no more.
I will die silently with my dry spell and accept my fate.
Allow me to love her just one last time.
I find nothing left to live for with her gone.
And if I follow her without ever doing it,
please write this in my epitaph,
"here lies a man who failed,
a man who loved music and did nothing about it,
a man who fought her and lost.
Here lies a coward with a million songs he refused
to give to the music of his soul,
here lies a failure who refused to release
an infinite number of beautiful tunes that music gave him
as a memento of their undying love,
here lies a man who killed that love and killed himself too."
Write my epitaph in bold, make it golden,
make it large, ugly and conspicuous,
but make sure the writings in honor of music are beautiful,
that would be my last gift for her,
my silent eternal apology for failing her,
for betraying our complicated love affair.
Please write sweetly and beautifully in bold,
"HERE LIES A MAN WHO FOUGHT MUSIC AND LOST"
Then my tortured soul shall rest in peace.
#TheMusingsOfAMadMan
#TheLoudThoughtsOfASilentPen
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#ThePoet
©Camistare 2019
Friday, 17 May 2019
THE PARADOX
Someone must lose for another to win,
Someone must fall for another to rise,
Someone must stop for another to start,
Someone must die for another to thrive,
I talked to a hearse operator,
He lamented to me,
"My friends, times are hard,
people are not dying,
If it continues like this,
We will be out of business,
People need to die my friend.
Then I met the morgue attendant,
He was with the chief pathologist,
Both basking in the dull sun on the morgue lawns.
He was gloomy and dull,
Then he began ranting,
"Business is low,
body counts have fallen,
If this trend continues,
I will have to pack up my gloves,
The post mortems are few,
My kids will go hungry,
My wife may leave me soon,
If people refuse to die.
Then I met the doctor,
He had on his face this plastic smile,
He shook my hand with a wicked glint
in his eye,
When I told him I am not seeking
medical attention,
He hit the roof for losing his precious
consultation fee.
I kept my smile,
He opened up,
"My friend, the times are hard," he confessed.
"The hospital beds are empty,
The queues are short,
The number of sick people be has drastically dropped.
I am afraid my dear friend that at this rate,
I may have to wind up practice."
My good doctor said.
I left the hearse operator praying,
May the Lord bless the work of his hand.
I left the morgue operator thinking,
Death is such a good thing,
Someone needs to die for the pathologist
to earn his daily bread.
I left the doctor thinking,
Someone needs to fall sick,
The medic must not wind up practice.
His lovely kids must not lack school fees,
Oh God, may you bless the work of his hands.
As my prayer ended,
I found me standing at the foot of my epitaph,
The creator of the masterpiece smiled,
I could see him singing as he made it,
The casket designer I never met was dancing too
as he made me a masterpiece,
The chorus and dance was marvellous,
The best part was the closing line of these
forgotten service providers,
"A hot meal at last, thank heavens."
The punchline ended the song,
I woke up dancing too,
dancing and meditatively thinking,
thinking about the awesome balance
that life is,
Dying to live in the process.
So I am stick in this paradox,
Taking a nap with my one eye open,
Lest I slip into the unfathomable depths
of the cousin of death, laymen call her sleep.
No deaths and no sickness
translate to no business and no profits,
No matter the case,
Man must live.
#Camistare2018
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheMusingsOfaMadMan
Someone must fall for another to rise,
Someone must stop for another to start,
Someone must die for another to thrive,
I talked to a hearse operator,
He lamented to me,
"My friends, times are hard,
people are not dying,
If it continues like this,
We will be out of business,
People need to die my friend.
Then I met the morgue attendant,
He was with the chief pathologist,
Both basking in the dull sun on the morgue lawns.
He was gloomy and dull,
Then he began ranting,
"Business is low,
body counts have fallen,
If this trend continues,
I will have to pack up my gloves,
The post mortems are few,
My kids will go hungry,
My wife may leave me soon,
If people refuse to die.
Then I met the doctor,
He had on his face this plastic smile,
He shook my hand with a wicked glint
in his eye,
When I told him I am not seeking
medical attention,
He hit the roof for losing his precious
consultation fee.
I kept my smile,
He opened up,
"My friend, the times are hard," he confessed.
"The hospital beds are empty,
The queues are short,
The number of sick people be has drastically dropped.
I am afraid my dear friend that at this rate,
I may have to wind up practice."
My good doctor said.
I left the hearse operator praying,
May the Lord bless the work of his hand.
I left the morgue operator thinking,
Death is such a good thing,
Someone needs to die for the pathologist
to earn his daily bread.
I left the doctor thinking,
Someone needs to fall sick,
The medic must not wind up practice.
His lovely kids must not lack school fees,
Oh God, may you bless the work of his hands.
As my prayer ended,
I found me standing at the foot of my epitaph,
The creator of the masterpiece smiled,
I could see him singing as he made it,
The casket designer I never met was dancing too
as he made me a masterpiece,
The chorus and dance was marvellous,
The best part was the closing line of these
forgotten service providers,
"A hot meal at last, thank heavens."
The punchline ended the song,
I woke up dancing too,
dancing and meditatively thinking,
thinking about the awesome balance
that life is,
Dying to live in the process.
So I am stick in this paradox,
Taking a nap with my one eye open,
Lest I slip into the unfathomable depths
of the cousin of death, laymen call her sleep.
No deaths and no sickness
translate to no business and no profits,
No matter the case,
Man must live.
#Camistare2018
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheMusingsOfaMadMan
CROSSROADS
I have been told for so long to be a man, a real man and I am in a crisis, I battle demons, I fight darkness, I beat myself, I search within for that real man and I still haven't figured out how to be one.
I have no spine, I lack the back bone, or may be I have them but know nothing about being a real man, the one they always tell me to be.
I am weak, I am soft, I dream, I let emotions run their course, I feel when as a man I should be cold, hard as stone.
I am still hanging in here walking blindly in the hope that I will find the man they want me to be that I know nothing of. I feel helpless but then again, how does a real man ask for help? How does he say the right thing he needs to say? What guarantee does he have that the very words he may say in that one moment of self abandon to his weakness will not be used to witness against his manliness when the hands of the clock turn? The more I think about it, the deeper I sink into this dark abyss, lost yet I can't ask for directions lest I get lost further than I am now in the process of being directed.
I know I have tried and keep trying but what is trying when you have nothing to show for it? What proves you have done something when there are little or no positive results to show for it? How do you explain when things beyond your control cannot allow you to be where you ought to be? How do you even explain how long it is taking or has taken when the judge, jury and executioner already know the outcome, when your sentence is already passed no matter your defense, proof and evidence to the contrary?
I wake up in the morning, look at myself in the mirror and see a pathetic failure, a veritable coward, a man without balls and to make it worse, they never miss the chance to remind me of that. Their voices replay in my head like a stuck grammaphone reminding me that I am nothing but empty trousers, beards, bass and different genitals.
Sometimes I wake up because I must. I think of life, of where I am and where I know I should be and I hate the morning sun, it announces proudly to me, the beginning of a new day, a chapter in the Chronicles of a chronic failure, it reminds me of another trial that flops, it reminds me of the how hard I have tried in the silent moments that I keep under wraps, the things I do without announcing, the plans, the dreams and visions I have since learnt to be aftaid to speak about loudly because they make no sense when there is no evidence of progress.
I swear I hang on because of the smile of a little girl who awakens the child in me. Sometimes I fight because of her, I keep fighting because of her and sometimes I wake up and face these dark days because when I think about her I tell myself, I can do this one more day.
I am waiting to be a man, a real man like the men out there, a true definition of a man that I have never been and may become or never become in future. The future that has always promised me heaven and delivered hell. Maybe one day I will find him, we will unite and become one and I will begin talking where all real men talk. I will find him one day or find a gun, put it in the head of this other weak man and send him to the other world so that the real man may finally reveal himself. I hate this man, I loathe him, I can't stand him but I keep hanging in there even though he disappoints me. I am at crossroads, the only thing that keeps me here from turning back is the hope that I might just accidentally stumble upon the right path in this darkness and find a miracle.
The story of my life depresses me. The pressure to become, the pressure to prove is overwhelming, what can a mortal man do? May the day break before the darkness takes me to where I can never return, the point of no return keeps calling me, every morning I wake up it entices me seductively, she asks me, what else is there to hold on to? What is there to live for? What is there to fight for? May the day break, for the night has been too long and I am afraid I can't take it anymore because each passing day my strength is falling me, I am a weak man I agree, but how strong can I be when being strong over the years has left me with nothing, not even a morsel of self dignity. May the day break.
#TheMusingsOfaMadMan
#Camistare2019
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#ReflectionsOfThePoet
Friday, 14 December 2018
LOVE LOST IN THE MIST (PEELING THE LAYERS)
(A MIRAGE)
Some years back there was this girl who had a mad crush on me, everyone knew it, I too saw and knew it. She was beautiful, drop dead gorgeous, sharp looks I can't deny, a little bit of sophistication here and there, good taste and a sprinkle of class. I must admit that at one point I seriously took note of her too and developed quite an interest. Interest enough to try reaching out but at every point I was met with silly obstacles. Unreal things that even a completely blind eye could see, fake-ness so pronounced that even a bewitched mind could pick out.
I naturally loath making phone calls but can write a million words in a day, blame it on me, blame it on my poor phone call manners and my addiction to the written. Anyway, I approached the damsel and established contact, asked her if I could text to say hi or just check on how she was doing on the other side of the world from time to time. When she told me, "I don't do texts," I folded my tail between my slim legs like a scared dog that has passed through a treatment of the funeral catering service providers, ate humble pie and graciously walked away.
But, that is not actually the real reason why I walked away, the real reason lies in the fakeness I saw in the act, the trying to be something that is not that was glaringly apparent in the statement, maybe I would have called if I had seen a tiny morsel of real-ness rather than a person trying so hard to be something else to impress, I never called. Later in life those calls came from the other side of the phone line but my train by then had long left the station, real-ness had swept me off my feet and tied me to her, my soul was at rest and seeds of love had by then become beautiful scented flowers waiting to bring forth sweet fruits - the fruits have indeed come in folds over the years but that is a story for another day.
Back to my crush, it hit me that if maybe she didn't do texts she would be a tech savvy sophist so I asked her what she calls herself on Facebook for starters, I did ask because on Facebook and over the social media as you commonly know, even people you know have names you have never heard of and photos you can't recognize. My sole intention then had been expressly to initiate conversation there but then again the answer came, "I am sorry I don't do Facebook." Again I saw the fakeness as I backed down, I knew she did that Facebook and maybe more.
I went quiet for a while and when I saw her again with her classy touch screen phone, I again asked her, are you on WhatsApp? The reply came, "I don't do WhatsApp dear" as her well manicured slim fingers caressed the phone screen, never mind I was operating a stone age Mosaic era stone tablet by then, very efficient with the battery, network and as a source of light when thieves appear. How I miss my mulika mwizi.
I remember then telling myself loudly inside my head, "Oh! Oh! here we go again."
Alas and behold! It did not take even two years after that and there, I had a Facebook friend request from the very one who never did Facebook, her names were of cause not the ones I know but at least her photos were.
As we go back to the studio for a short commercial break, I need to report to you that we have ocassionaly chatted on WhatsApp from time to time and exchanged texts here and there.
I must admit that at times, I have been so tempted by this strong urge, sometimes I have felt a strong urge akin to someone hard pressed by a full bladder of urine to ask her, "how come you do these very things?" I have however kept my cool, it is called the art of keeping lanes.
Along to journey, somewhere along this station, my train left the station a long time ago and arrived at a different destination where true love attracted me, drew me, and like a moth to the light, I flew, arrived and has ever since been bewitched and imprisoned by the warm light of a real loves afterglow. The difference of being just real all through is fulfilling beyond compare and the need to act the part is none existent.
In the epilogue, someone came back when I had already been taken, the empty seats that existed by then are totally occupied and not even the walkway between the seats is empty. Furthermore, I have never seen her again through the very eyes I used to see her with, those brown eyes of the poet were taken by someone else who has been with me in this same train savouring the scenic beauties of our journey together as we travel along. Though she keeps seeing me, roadblocks, barriers and appropriate signs have I erected in place that define clearly the boundaries and where trespass cannot be allowed but is bound to be prosecuted spelt out clearly too.
As we get back on air, my home is firmly settled in this new train I have been in with this real queen with fairies long dead and gone. I am totally at peace and living a full life but most importantly, all that is here is real, the good, the bad and the ugly, the perfection and flaws. And that is what love is, naked abandon.
#TheChroniclesOfMyLoveLife
#ReflectionsOfThePoet
#Camistare2018
#WuonMor
#JaodNyaIsukha
Some years back there was this girl who had a mad crush on me, everyone knew it, I too saw and knew it. She was beautiful, drop dead gorgeous, sharp looks I can't deny, a little bit of sophistication here and there, good taste and a sprinkle of class. I must admit that at one point I seriously took note of her too and developed quite an interest. Interest enough to try reaching out but at every point I was met with silly obstacles. Unreal things that even a completely blind eye could see, fake-ness so pronounced that even a bewitched mind could pick out.
I naturally loath making phone calls but can write a million words in a day, blame it on me, blame it on my poor phone call manners and my addiction to the written. Anyway, I approached the damsel and established contact, asked her if I could text to say hi or just check on how she was doing on the other side of the world from time to time. When she told me, "I don't do texts," I folded my tail between my slim legs like a scared dog that has passed through a treatment of the funeral catering service providers, ate humble pie and graciously walked away.
But, that is not actually the real reason why I walked away, the real reason lies in the fakeness I saw in the act, the trying to be something that is not that was glaringly apparent in the statement, maybe I would have called if I had seen a tiny morsel of real-ness rather than a person trying so hard to be something else to impress, I never called. Later in life those calls came from the other side of the phone line but my train by then had long left the station, real-ness had swept me off my feet and tied me to her, my soul was at rest and seeds of love had by then become beautiful scented flowers waiting to bring forth sweet fruits - the fruits have indeed come in folds over the years but that is a story for another day.
Back to my crush, it hit me that if maybe she didn't do texts she would be a tech savvy sophist so I asked her what she calls herself on Facebook for starters, I did ask because on Facebook and over the social media as you commonly know, even people you know have names you have never heard of and photos you can't recognize. My sole intention then had been expressly to initiate conversation there but then again the answer came, "I am sorry I don't do Facebook." Again I saw the fakeness as I backed down, I knew she did that Facebook and maybe more.
I went quiet for a while and when I saw her again with her classy touch screen phone, I again asked her, are you on WhatsApp? The reply came, "I don't do WhatsApp dear" as her well manicured slim fingers caressed the phone screen, never mind I was operating a stone age Mosaic era stone tablet by then, very efficient with the battery, network and as a source of light when thieves appear. How I miss my mulika mwizi.
I remember then telling myself loudly inside my head, "Oh! Oh! here we go again."
Alas and behold! It did not take even two years after that and there, I had a Facebook friend request from the very one who never did Facebook, her names were of cause not the ones I know but at least her photos were.
As we go back to the studio for a short commercial break, I need to report to you that we have ocassionaly chatted on WhatsApp from time to time and exchanged texts here and there.
I must admit that at times, I have been so tempted by this strong urge, sometimes I have felt a strong urge akin to someone hard pressed by a full bladder of urine to ask her, "how come you do these very things?" I have however kept my cool, it is called the art of keeping lanes.
Along to journey, somewhere along this station, my train left the station a long time ago and arrived at a different destination where true love attracted me, drew me, and like a moth to the light, I flew, arrived and has ever since been bewitched and imprisoned by the warm light of a real loves afterglow. The difference of being just real all through is fulfilling beyond compare and the need to act the part is none existent.
In the epilogue, someone came back when I had already been taken, the empty seats that existed by then are totally occupied and not even the walkway between the seats is empty. Furthermore, I have never seen her again through the very eyes I used to see her with, those brown eyes of the poet were taken by someone else who has been with me in this same train savouring the scenic beauties of our journey together as we travel along. Though she keeps seeing me, roadblocks, barriers and appropriate signs have I erected in place that define clearly the boundaries and where trespass cannot be allowed but is bound to be prosecuted spelt out clearly too.
As we get back on air, my home is firmly settled in this new train I have been in with this real queen with fairies long dead and gone. I am totally at peace and living a full life but most importantly, all that is here is real, the good, the bad and the ugly, the perfection and flaws. And that is what love is, naked abandon.
#TheChroniclesOfMyLoveLife
#ReflectionsOfThePoet
#Camistare2018
#WuonMor
#JaodNyaIsukha
Friday, 7 December 2018
A NOTE TO NYAKANO
Dear Jaber,
It's long since daddy said something to you,
But he has been saying a million things within him,
Even with just the thought of you.
So in a twisted way these very thoughts refused
to be a soliloquy inside daddy.
You radiate the sun itself,
You replicate the beauty of a full moon
on a clear night sky at Sidho in the vast Kano plains.
You remind me of stars on such a night,
and the stars remind me of your mother.
Memories, dreams, wishes, instances,
events and moments intertwined.
Nyar Yimbo,
You are the reason why the sky is blue,
I swear it's true for I see it when I look at you.
Dark clouds on my horizon,
they melt like ice somewhere in Lokichar
or magadi to total oblivion -
even just with the thought of you.
You are the reason why the earth spins on it's axis,
I mean it when I speak this.
I am trying to remember what life was
or rather how it was before you happened,
Before you appeared and took over every nook and cranny
of my atmosphere.
What seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks , months and years
were before you appeared,
I swear I am blank like a plain printing paper.
The data must have been erased for all I remember,
is life after you came.
The past is a mist, a collection of empty spaces.
Yours Forever
The Poet
#Camistare2018
#ReflectionsOfThePoet
#TotoaBaba
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#FatherhoodChronicles
It's long since daddy said something to you,
But he has been saying a million things within him,
Even with just the thought of you.
So in a twisted way these very thoughts refused
to be a soliloquy inside daddy.
You radiate the sun itself,
You replicate the beauty of a full moon
on a clear night sky at Sidho in the vast Kano plains.
You remind me of stars on such a night,
and the stars remind me of your mother.
Memories, dreams, wishes, instances,
events and moments intertwined.
Nyar Yimbo,
You are the reason why the sky is blue,
I swear it's true for I see it when I look at you.
Dark clouds on my horizon,
they melt like ice somewhere in Lokichar
or magadi to total oblivion -
even just with the thought of you.
You are the reason why the earth spins on it's axis,
I mean it when I speak this.
I am trying to remember what life was
or rather how it was before you happened,
Before you appeared and took over every nook and cranny
of my atmosphere.
What seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks , months and years
were before you appeared,
I swear I am blank like a plain printing paper.
The data must have been erased for all I remember,
is life after you came.
The past is a mist, a collection of empty spaces.
Yours Forever
The Poet
#Camistare2018
#ReflectionsOfThePoet
#TotoaBaba
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#FatherhoodChronicles
Saturday, 10 November 2018
THE PARADOX
Someone must lose for another to win,
Someone must fall for another to rise,
Someone must stop for another to start,
Someone must die for another to thrive,
I talked to a hearse operator,
He lamented to me,
"My friends, times are hard,
people are not dying,
If it continues like this,
We will be out of business,
People need to die my friend.
Then I met the morgue attendant,
He was with the chief pathologist,
Both basking in the dull sun
on the morgue lawns.
He was gloomy and dull,
Then he began ranting,
"Business is low,
body counts have fallen,
If this trend continues,
I will have to pack up my gloves,
The post mortems are few,
My kids will go hungry,
My wife may leave me soon,
If people refuse to die.
Then I met the doctor,
He had on his face this plastic smile,
He shook my hand with a wicked glint
in his eye,
When I told him I am not seeking
medical attention,
He hit the roof for losing his precious
consultation fee.
I kept my smile,
He opened up,
"My friend, the times are hard,"
he confessed.
"The hospital beds are empty,
The queues are short,
The number of sick people
has drastically dropped.
I am afraid my dear friend that at this rate,
I may have to wind up practice."
My good doctor said.
I left the hearse operator praying,
May the Lord bless the work of his hand.
I left the morgue operator thinking,
Death is such a good thing,
Someone needs to die for the pathologist
to earn his daily bread,
And so is the morgue attendant,
Even the building cleaner.
I left the doctor thinking,
Someone needs to fall sick,
The medic must not wind up practice.
His lovely kids must not lack school fees,
Oh God, may you bless the work of his hands.
As my prayer ended,
I found me standing at the foot of my epitaph,
The creator of the masterpiece smiled,
I could see him singing as he made it,
The casket designer I never met
was dancing too as he made me a masterpiece,
The chorus and dance was marvellous,
The best part was the closing line of these
forgotten service providers,
"A hot meal at last, thank heavens."
The punchline ended the song,
I woke up dancing too, dancing and
meditatively thinking, thinking of the awesome balance
that life is,
Dying to live in the process.
So I am stick in this paradox,
Taking a nap with my one eye open,
Lest I slip into the unfathomable depths of the cousin of death,
Laymen call her sleep.
No deaths and no sickness translates to no business and no profits,
No matter the case,
Man must live.
#Camistare2018
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
Someone must fall for another to rise,
Someone must stop for another to start,
Someone must die for another to thrive,
I talked to a hearse operator,
He lamented to me,
"My friends, times are hard,
people are not dying,
If it continues like this,
We will be out of business,
People need to die my friend.
Then I met the morgue attendant,
He was with the chief pathologist,
Both basking in the dull sun
on the morgue lawns.
He was gloomy and dull,
Then he began ranting,
"Business is low,
body counts have fallen,
If this trend continues,
I will have to pack up my gloves,
The post mortems are few,
My kids will go hungry,
My wife may leave me soon,
If people refuse to die.
Then I met the doctor,
He had on his face this plastic smile,
He shook my hand with a wicked glint
in his eye,
When I told him I am not seeking
medical attention,
He hit the roof for losing his precious
consultation fee.
I kept my smile,
He opened up,
"My friend, the times are hard,"
he confessed.
"The hospital beds are empty,
The queues are short,
The number of sick people
has drastically dropped.
I am afraid my dear friend that at this rate,
I may have to wind up practice."
My good doctor said.
I left the hearse operator praying,
May the Lord bless the work of his hand.
I left the morgue operator thinking,
Death is such a good thing,
Someone needs to die for the pathologist
to earn his daily bread,
And so is the morgue attendant,
Even the building cleaner.
I left the doctor thinking,
Someone needs to fall sick,
The medic must not wind up practice.
His lovely kids must not lack school fees,
Oh God, may you bless the work of his hands.
As my prayer ended,
I found me standing at the foot of my epitaph,
The creator of the masterpiece smiled,
I could see him singing as he made it,
The casket designer I never met
was dancing too as he made me a masterpiece,
The chorus and dance was marvellous,
The best part was the closing line of these
forgotten service providers,
"A hot meal at last, thank heavens."
The punchline ended the song,
I woke up dancing too, dancing and
meditatively thinking, thinking of the awesome balance
that life is,
Dying to live in the process.
So I am stick in this paradox,
Taking a nap with my one eye open,
Lest I slip into the unfathomable depths of the cousin of death,
Laymen call her sleep.
No deaths and no sickness translates to no business and no profits,
No matter the case,
Man must live.
#Camistare2018
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
Friday, 9 November 2018
A POWER SPEECH (A vagina's soliloquy)
I am a vagina.
I am powerful and weak in one stride.
I am honorable and dishonourable
in one stride.
They despise me,
Yet they got life through me,
They call me ugly,
Yet they constantly run after me,
Lose their heads over me,
Kill each other over me,
They abuse me,
Call me names,
Make fun of me,
Yet they all passed through me,
I gave them life and I don't brag
about it.
They underate me,
Yet I bring them down,
I literally make them bite the dust
and worms,
Yet they still brag about how they have
Conquered me.
I look at them and smile to myself,
Fools, I mutter to myself in amusement.
I am sweet,
I am addictive,
But I am also bitter and vindictive.
I am hot and embracing,
But I am also stone cold and disgusting,
I answer to the name you call me,
I deliver to the exact value you assign me.
I am stronger than your heart,
Tougher than your jaws, bones and teeth,
I get torn and recover,
I bleed yet soldier on,
I heal myself and make no demands,
I get abused and I protest not,
I still walk shoulder high,
I still rebound from the hardest lows,
I still make you find joy,
I pass through demeaning things,
Yet I still leave with all of me intact,
Even my ego, just in case you didn't know.
If you were put through half of what I have to cope with,
You would not last even a micro second.
I am resilient, I am a fighter, I am a beautiful thing,
That is why you can't get enough of me,
That is why you keep coming for more,
I am a vagina,
I am asking you to respect me,
We are not peers for God's sake,
I am a vagina.
Thank you.
#Camistare2018
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
I am powerful and weak in one stride.
I am honorable and dishonourable
in one stride.
They despise me,
Yet they got life through me,
They call me ugly,
Yet they constantly run after me,
Lose their heads over me,
Kill each other over me,
They abuse me,
Call me names,
Make fun of me,
Yet they all passed through me,
I gave them life and I don't brag
about it.
They underate me,
Yet I bring them down,
I literally make them bite the dust
and worms,
Yet they still brag about how they have
Conquered me.
I look at them and smile to myself,
Fools, I mutter to myself in amusement.
I am sweet,
I am addictive,
But I am also bitter and vindictive.
I am hot and embracing,
But I am also stone cold and disgusting,
I answer to the name you call me,
I deliver to the exact value you assign me.
I am stronger than your heart,
Tougher than your jaws, bones and teeth,
I get torn and recover,
I bleed yet soldier on,
I heal myself and make no demands,
I get abused and I protest not,
I still walk shoulder high,
I still rebound from the hardest lows,
I still make you find joy,
I pass through demeaning things,
Yet I still leave with all of me intact,
Even my ego, just in case you didn't know.
If you were put through half of what I have to cope with,
You would not last even a micro second.
I am resilient, I am a fighter, I am a beautiful thing,
That is why you can't get enough of me,
That is why you keep coming for more,
I am a vagina,
I am asking you to respect me,
We are not peers for God's sake,
I am a vagina.
Thank you.
#Camistare2018
#TheLoudThoughtsOfaSilentPen
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
ROASTED
I feel far away from the pearly Gates of heaven,
Hell bell tolls ring louder in my ears
than the sweet angelic heavenly choir,
My feet are closer to hell's boundaries than to heaven,
I am walking close to the fence of hell,
My life itself seems like hell more than it feels like earth,
My soul is thirsty,
Thirsty for a taste of heaven
Thirsty for something different,
For hell has been so hard on me,
If only my drained soul could get a little morsel of paradise,
If only a miracle messenger could cross over
and drip a little of the living waters,
On my dry, burning and cracked tongue.
My feet long for a different direction,
I have been lost in these thick woods,
The canopy blocking the sky,
The only light I see, these hellish flames,
The only warmth I feel,
These hellish heat,
And now I know I should not be here,
How do I trace back my way to paradise?
How do I get back to heaven?
Oh! How I hope I am not too late.
<Camistare 2018>
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheSilentThoughtsOfaLoudPen
Hell bell tolls ring louder in my ears
than the sweet angelic heavenly choir,
My feet are closer to hell's boundaries than to heaven,
I am walking close to the fence of hell,
My life itself seems like hell more than it feels like earth,
My soul is thirsty,
Thirsty for a taste of heaven
Thirsty for something different,
For hell has been so hard on me,
If only my drained soul could get a little morsel of paradise,
If only a miracle messenger could cross over
and drip a little of the living waters,
On my dry, burning and cracked tongue.
My feet long for a different direction,
I have been lost in these thick woods,
The canopy blocking the sky,
The only light I see, these hellish flames,
The only warmth I feel,
These hellish heat,
And now I know I should not be here,
How do I trace back my way to paradise?
How do I get back to heaven?
Oh! How I hope I am not too late.
<Camistare 2018>
#TheReflectionsOfThePoet
#TheSilentThoughtsOfaLoudPen
Friday, 26 October 2018
LONGING FOR THE FLOODS
LONGING FOR THE FLOODS
They call me the man from Kano,
They praise my reputation world over,
Like an adage they repeat,
Jakano tek, to tar, to otimo leche,
I take it not as an insult,
I see it as an accolade,
I wear it with pride and wear it as my breast plate,
My navigation pole is long and firm,
It's not my fault,
Blame it on the adaptation,
My adaptation to the floods,
My legs are slim, long and firm,
My height is awesome,
Slightly above average,
Don't blame it on me,
Blame nature, nature that gave height to me,
Height good enough for the flooded rice pads.
I am a giant yet gentle,
Call me a gentle giant,
I am thirsty now, thirsty for love,
Thirsty for the floods,
My wading Kano pole is almost cracking
and bending,
The cracks widening,
becoming large enough to hide the old five shilling coin,
Large enough to trip a tiny damsels foot and cause a sprain,
The cracks of the anywang' (black cotton clay soil)
of Kano plains on a hot afternoon sun are incurable,
thanks to the hot sun and dryness.
Only the floods of the mighty river
nyando can seal the cracks now,
But am told River Nzoia would do a much better job,
So my pole needs a remedy,
A remedy of strong luhya love,
For only waters from a specific
Western river can seal these cracks.
This pole needs deeping, the floods.
Oh may the floods come again,
May they come and seal these wide cracks
on this black cotton soil,
May the floods come again and make the ignorant
understand what we mean when we say,
Jakano tek, to tar, to otimo leche.
I don't do deep sea diving,
that is for coastarians,
Some muddy floody wading
gives me the adrenaline and the dull Kano spark and glow.
May it rain, may the floods come again,
from the Western mountains.
I need me some deep luhya love.
*Jakano: Man from Kano
*Tek: Is strong or hardened
*To tar: and with a cracked dry skin
*To otimo leche: And is full of veins
#thesmittenpoet
#Camistare2018
#thereflectionsofthepoet
They call me the man from Kano,
They praise my reputation world over,
Like an adage they repeat,
Jakano tek, to tar, to otimo leche,
I take it not as an insult,
I see it as an accolade,
I wear it with pride and wear it as my breast plate,
My navigation pole is long and firm,
It's not my fault,
Blame it on the adaptation,
My adaptation to the floods,
My legs are slim, long and firm,
My height is awesome,
Slightly above average,
Don't blame it on me,
Blame nature, nature that gave height to me,
Height good enough for the flooded rice pads.
I am a giant yet gentle,
Call me a gentle giant,
I am thirsty now, thirsty for love,
Thirsty for the floods,
My wading Kano pole is almost cracking
and bending,
The cracks widening,
becoming large enough to hide the old five shilling coin,
Large enough to trip a tiny damsels foot and cause a sprain,
The cracks of the anywang' (black cotton clay soil)
of Kano plains on a hot afternoon sun are incurable,
thanks to the hot sun and dryness.
Only the floods of the mighty river
nyando can seal the cracks now,
But am told River Nzoia would do a much better job,
So my pole needs a remedy,
A remedy of strong luhya love,
For only waters from a specific
Western river can seal these cracks.
This pole needs deeping, the floods.
Oh may the floods come again,
May they come and seal these wide cracks
on this black cotton soil,
May the floods come again and make the ignorant
understand what we mean when we say,
Jakano tek, to tar, to otimo leche.
I don't do deep sea diving,
that is for coastarians,
Some muddy floody wading
gives me the adrenaline and the dull Kano spark and glow.
May it rain, may the floods come again,
from the Western mountains.
I need me some deep luhya love.
*Jakano: Man from Kano
*Tek: Is strong or hardened
*To tar: and with a cracked dry skin
*To otimo leche: And is full of veins
#thesmittenpoet
#Camistare2018
#thereflectionsofthepoet
Saturday, 8 September 2018
THIS STORY
This story has been written
for a very long time but it must end now.
It doesn't matter if it is complete or not,
It must end on this note.
It doesn't matter if it needs a comma or a full stop,
it must stop right here, right now, this moment.
Tear this page, tear these chapters,
they have been chapters of pain,
they have been pages and pages of disappointments,
and discouragement.
They have been tales of failure,
tales of insignificance,
tales of nothingness,
tales of trying against all odds
with no results to show for strenuous effort.
I must tear these pages,
I must burn these chapters,
I must destroy this manuscript,
I must stop now, throw everything away and start a fresh.
This story must take a detour,
it must take a new turn, a different turn.
It must stop now for the next one to begin,
It must take a new turn, a new twist,
It must die to get a new life,
It must die to live.
It doesn't matter how thrilling,
how enchanting, how captivating, how engaging it sounds.
It has been a story of tiredness and dead dreams,
a story of visions and hopes nipped in the bud.
I must leave this story now,
to rewrite a new one with a happy beginning,
a merry body and a happy ending.
#TheMusingsOfAMadMan
#Camistare2018
#TheScreamingThoughtsOfASilentPen
for a very long time but it must end now.
It doesn't matter if it is complete or not,
It must end on this note.
It doesn't matter if it needs a comma or a full stop,
it must stop right here, right now, this moment.
Tear this page, tear these chapters,
they have been chapters of pain,
they have been pages and pages of disappointments,
and discouragement.
They have been tales of failure,
tales of insignificance,
tales of nothingness,
tales of trying against all odds
with no results to show for strenuous effort.
I must tear these pages,
I must burn these chapters,
I must destroy this manuscript,
I must stop now, throw everything away and start a fresh.
This story must take a detour,
it must take a new turn, a different turn.
It must stop now for the next one to begin,
It must take a new turn, a new twist,
It must die to get a new life,
It must die to live.
It doesn't matter how thrilling,
how enchanting, how captivating, how engaging it sounds.
It has been a story of tiredness and dead dreams,
a story of visions and hopes nipped in the bud.
I must leave this story now,
to rewrite a new one with a happy beginning,
a merry body and a happy ending.
#TheMusingsOfAMadMan
#Camistare2018
#TheScreamingThoughtsOfASilentPen
Wednesday, 5 September 2018
A TRIBUTE FOR A SLAIN "PROSTITUTE"
I have seen the self righteous justify murder,
I have seen them blame the victim,
I have seen them say plainly she deserved to die,
to be killed,
I have seen them kill her again,
I have seen them kill her a second time.
I have seen better Christians mock her morality,
I have seen them join the Pharisees
and stone her for appalling immorality
I have seen them mock Jesus as he tells them,
'let he who has never sinned throw the first stone.'
I have seen better parents,
parents who have raised better girls
say that it serves her right.
I have heard them hurl hurting epithets,
utter derogatory names,
say mean things in the name of advising
the dead girl and others with ill manners like her.
the dead girl and others with ill manners like her.
The advice of cause excludes their children,
they only gave birth to spotless saints and angels,
well raised kids to be precise.
they only gave birth to spotless saints and angels,
well raised kids to be precise.
I have seen these pretenders and
remembered mercy.
I have heard them and remembered
the second thief on the cross,
the second thief on the cross,
I have remembered the words of Jesus,
tonight you shall sit with me in paradise.
I have seen girls and properly raised
women kill one of their own,
I have seen them shame her dead
vagina,
I have seen them call it names,
I have seen them accuse heri
illicitunborn child who will
illicitunborn child who will
unfortunately never see the sun like
her mum too.
I need not ask like Jesus,
'woman where are your accusers'
They are loud, violent and right,
they are spotless, unquestionable, right and loud,
they are violent and formidable.
I have seen them laugh, jeer and sneer
at her wiped out bright future.
I have seen them speak in righteous anger,
I have seen them poke her forever
shut eyes with fingers of rage,
I have seen them blaming her for
dating a married man and I hear
his son too,
But I have heard none of them call
the men in question,
I have seen none of them blame
the married man for dating a young
girl.
How can they?
How can they when they are better
humans?
How can they when they are holier
women?
How can they when they have better
children?
How can they when they don't know
how it feels for your child to be
murdered in cold blood?
How can they when they have never
been in those shoes?
How can they when they know it all?
How can they not be right when the
dead victim of circumstances is the
one totally wrong?
How can they when their, sons, husbands,
and daughters are angels?
How can they know?
No I will not blame them,
I will not blame them for being ignorant,
I will not blame them for being blunt,
I will not blame them for being cold,
I will not blame them for being stupid,
I will not blame them for being right,
I will not blame them for giving great
motherly advice to a dead and cold
thing,
I will not blame them,
I will not blame them for being heartless,
I will not blame them for being mean,
I will not blame them for being inhumane,
I will not blame them for being unchristian.
I will not because if I do I may vomit
and eat my own vomit.
Otherwise how can I make them see,
she did not deserve to die,
neither did the seed in her womb?
A tribute to a life cut short.
#themusingsofamadman
#thescreamingthoughtsofasilentpen
#Camistare2018
LET US PRAY
Let us pray.
That is the word we utter when we
reach the outer limits of our wits,
when we come to a dead end,
when we come to the end of
our thinking capacity,
when our intelligence and brilliance
has hit a snag,
It is the word we speak when we
encounter turmoil, fierce storms,
and formidable difficulties,
It is the word we speak when
impossibilities stare at us straight
in the face,
It is the word we speak when poop
hits the fan and we need the heavens
to clean up the mess,
when we recognize nothing else
can get things back to the rightful
place.
Let us pray,
that is the word we say sometimes
when we want to pretend,
when we want to fit in the mix,
when we want the religious to
overlook out atrocities and embrace
us.
Let us pray,
It is the word we remember when
nothing else remains,
when at crossroads we arrive at
the end of the road,
It is the word we remember when
the pains of the thorns in our flesh
are intense and give us no peace,
It is the word we utter when
temptations become stronger than
us, outsmart us and overrun us.
Let us pray,
It is the word we will say when we
lose what we can't replace and often
forget when we win and when
we gain.
Let us pray,
It is the word we may forget when
we have meals but never fail to say
when the meals get scarce.
It is the solace we run to, the solace
we turn to when all else has ceased
to make sense,
When all else has turned upside down.
Let us pray.
Oh! The magic three words.
#themusingsofamadman
#camistare2018
#thescreamingthoughtsofasilentpen
#reflectionsofthepoet
That is the word we utter when we
reach the outer limits of our wits,
when we come to a dead end,
when we come to the end of
our thinking capacity,
when our intelligence and brilliance
has hit a snag,
It is the word we speak when we
encounter turmoil, fierce storms,
and formidable difficulties,
It is the word we speak when
impossibilities stare at us straight
in the face,
It is the word we speak when poop
hits the fan and we need the heavens
to clean up the mess,
when we recognize nothing else
can get things back to the rightful
place.
Let us pray,
that is the word we say sometimes
when we want to pretend,
when we want to fit in the mix,
when we want the religious to
overlook out atrocities and embrace
us.
Let us pray,
It is the word we remember when
nothing else remains,
when at crossroads we arrive at
the end of the road,
It is the word we remember when
the pains of the thorns in our flesh
are intense and give us no peace,
It is the word we utter when
temptations become stronger than
us, outsmart us and overrun us.
Let us pray,
It is the word we will say when we
lose what we can't replace and often
forget when we win and when
we gain.
Let us pray,
It is the word we may forget when
we have meals but never fail to say
when the meals get scarce.
It is the solace we run to, the solace
we turn to when all else has ceased
to make sense,
When all else has turned upside down.
Let us pray.
Oh! The magic three words.
#themusingsofamadman
#camistare2018
#thescreamingthoughtsofasilentpen
#reflectionsofthepoet
A CUP OF HOT COFFEE
When the cold is chilling my bones,
and the hormones are raging within,
and the car blood in my veins cry for
heating,
I remember things, creepy things,
creepy things come to my mind,
thoughts and wise quotes like,
'two are better than one,
when two lie together they keep
warm.'
I shake my head to clear the fog,
but before I can clearly see,
the 'Arrow of God pops to my eyes,
And I hear Chinua Achebe speaking
to me, telling me, enlightening me,
with this magic African wisdom,
He tells me,
"The penis that does not die young
will one day eat meat with beards"
It's the effect of this cold,
If you don't mind, could you please
bring me a hot cup of coffee?
#themusingsofamadman
#camistare2018
#thescreamingthoughtsofasilentpen
and the hormones are raging within,
and the car blood in my veins cry for
heating,
I remember things, creepy things,
creepy things come to my mind,
thoughts and wise quotes like,
'two are better than one,
when two lie together they keep
warm.'
I shake my head to clear the fog,
but before I can clearly see,
the 'Arrow of God pops to my eyes,
And I hear Chinua Achebe speaking
to me, telling me, enlightening me,
with this magic African wisdom,
He tells me,
"The penis that does not die young
will one day eat meat with beards"
It's the effect of this cold,
If you don't mind, could you please
bring me a hot cup of coffee?
#themusingsofamadman
#camistare2018
#thescreamingthoughtsofasilentpen
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)