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
Wednesday, 22 May 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
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