Do birds still sing?

Do birds still sing in times of war?

Or are their solemn songs in lament? 

Of life lost and death gained. 

A requiem for the dead, or a mockery for the fallen?

Do birds still chant in oppression? 

A wail for the dead, or a howl at the bloodlust heavens for spirits gone?

Ironically I do see, birds indeed sing for their masters in deathbed, 

to what end I could tell only were I a bird.

So I await, 

till the birds sing on and the time ticks on 

'til the gods send us all into the same unkown eternity, 

then we shall ask, 

do birds still sing?

Guest post - by Ostvald Ayew 

MM XX IV

It's like the old days,

no traffic and no electricity..

The roads were full of dirt

and dust was the air we breathe.

It's like a throwback moment,

when newest car models,

had to be pushed to start the engine.

The trails through the farms,

connecting to the main roads,

had been drawn by feet,

the constant walking,

the grass gave way.

The rocks lined across the river,

safest bet to cross to the other side.

When it rained, the rocks disappeared..

& then you had to change route,

to get to a bridge,

if it was lucky enough not to have been swept away.

The houses were scattered,

the name neighbours was foreign..

but everyone you met you knew,

small town.

The shops were miles away,

you had to buy breakfast the night before.

Milk came straight from the cows' udders,

bread was baked by the famous Mandevu.

The children played the role of a clock..

That's if, the cock crowed but 

because you couldn't snooze,

forgot to wake up.

They told the time, they told the seasons.

You'd see them in the mornings,

walking to school in groups.

You'd hear them play over break times..

& they'd fill the roads on the way back home.

The holidays had them everywhere,

making happy noises,

getting creative and being themselves.

The parents were always seen around,

or were always at work.

Those who worked,

worked far from here.

They would walk, at times, 

3 hours to work.

It was the other side of today.

It was the other side of what we have.

The game of patience

Impatience, a name of pain;

a game insane, 

pain for the plain,

a claim to the thrift,

a drain to the swift.

One step at a time,

there's no need to rush,

pushing edges down,

crumbling bricks down,

reasons to frown,

an anchor to your feet,

to drown.

I can't breathe,

it's suffocating.

The thought, intimidating..

The thrill is amazing,

the results, 

. . . not comprehending.

The harder they ball,

the faster they fall.

The want now,

the need now,

never-ending.

When can I breathe,

breathe in then breathe out;

. . . slowly comprehending.

What's the speed limit?

& the reading on my meter?

The brakes come screeching,

the effort comes scripted.

Doomed to fail,

too fast a stride.

Did I run too fast,

too fast past the finish line?

It's crazy.

The need to be hungry,

and the thirst won't be quenched.

One sip at a time?

With all this wine???

The curtains close fast,

faster than they opened.

The thrill of the moment,

is tripping.

Am like a dry sponge 

that absorbs too fast,

you can't even blame me;

I'm learning.

Taking that one step at a time;

learning to be patient.

I am mastering the game,

the Patience Game.

Hey there, Sunflower

Hello there, Helianthus..
you lovely sunflower,
you precious being.
Yellow and golden on the outside,
radiating joy and beauty,
smiles and warmth.

Your petals reflect your beauty,
and your leaves complement you.
Your long stems tower you up above most
and the ground you stand on, today,
is in good terms with your roots;
your past, where you've come from.
You are the sun in my garden,
literally.. & I guess, hence your name:
Little Miss Sunflower.

But tell me why,
oh, dear Sunflower,
why your innermost is dark and cloudy,
why you shine so bright to the world
but your within is in contrast to your without.
You're life on the outside and lifeless on the inside.
Has your heart been through so much?
Has your fight been too brutal?
Who wronged you, beautiful one?
Who stepped  on your shoes?

But something tells me, I might be judging,
the book by it's cover.
You've protected your heart.
You've guarded your within.
The dark and cloudy I see,
is an illusion to what's deeper.
You've put a shade to that which you value most;
you've hidden your treasures behind a veil,
a veil that only the deserving can walk past.
You've seen the pain, you've felt the hurt,
and you know very well,
prevention over cure.
You've cured your heart,
and prevented the hurt.
The dark and cloudy I see,
is the long steel-reinforced hardwood doors,
at the entry to a palace,
that only the royal have the access to.

Keep glowing, keep radiating,
the rightful prince is on his way,
the golden key in his hand,
and when he gets there,
you'll hear him knock,
three times,
he'll open your gates,
and you'll hear him say:
"Hey there, Sunflower"

Write me a poem

Of all the days, of all the nights,

I remain alive in this world,

today’s is the night I want,

you to write me a poem.

Grab a pen and piece of paper,

sit in a room full of peace,

and peacefully, write me a poem.

Let the state be pin-drop silence,

let the noise you hear, distracting your ear,

be the scribbling of the words of your craft,

the words of this poem.

Let the ideas of a lifetime,

fill the pages of this poem.

Let the reflection of my past,

guide you. Lead you. Direct you.

Under the beam of the moonlight,

with memories of the sunshine,

let the rays of creativity,

illuminate the touch of your pen on paper,

and shine upon your versatile creation and wild imagination,

that will live and leave an eternity of impression.

Impress me, write me a poem.

Write me a poem, 

a poem of joy, a poem of sadness.

A poem of laughter, a poem of tears,

A poem of seconds, minutes, hours,

days, weeks, months and years.

Write me a poem I'll read in the future,

still relevant and smile about the past.

Write me a poem that will tickle my fantasies,

and make me chuckle,

then chuckle again,

before bursting into an uncontrollable laughter.

Tears of joy.

Make this poem my toy.

I am grown up now,

But make this poem my toy.

Something I will play with,

look at and smile.

Something that will understand me,

for who I am, what I am.

For who I could be, not what I've done.

A toy. Something that will always be close to me.

Write me something to look at before I go to bed.

Write me something to wake up to.

Write me something to read alongside the morning newspaper,

as I take my breakfast.

Something to read in the middle of my morning run.

Something to read when I'm dressing up for work,

Something to read for days on end,

Nights in bed.

Write me a poem.

Write me a poem,

because then, it will mean so much to me.

You are not like the rest of them.

You are special.

I want a poem so special.

A poem I will treasure.

You know me too well.

You know my highs and my lows,

my likes and dislikes.

You know my do's and my don’ts,

my silence and my loudness.

What makes me happy,

what tears me apart,

rips open my heart.

You know me from the start 

and will to the end.

You might be a little mean,

but if that's what it'll take,

for you not to be fake,

I'll let you write it.

I want a real poem.

I want a straightforward poem.

A poem that will serve it to me hot,

no matter how cold.

So before you start writing me this poem,

understand that you will need to understand me.

Remember that you will need to remember me.

If you want the poem a mess,

understand and remember,

I won’t mind a beautiful mess,

nor the ugly truth.

As beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder,

the beauty of this poem will lie in the hand of the penholder,

which is you.

You hold the fate of this poem in your hands,

you either make it or break it.

But please make it.

In case you break it, break it into a well-crafted masterpiece.

For all I care just make me smile when you’re done,

Because all I want, ever wanted,

was you, to write me a poem.

Write me a poem.

My Silent Ambition

My silent ambition,
for the better things in life; the finest things in life,
for prosperity,
for peace, tranquility,
for the things deemed as vanity,
for the dreams turned to reality,
is unspoken;
unheard of, unmentioned.
It is as silent as the dark of the nights,
silent as the shadows under the moonlights.
It treads in unheard of paths,
hidden from the plainest of sights.
It is graciously careful, not to trip and
awaken the wilds of the forests,
loud enough not to awaken they who sleep.
It is like a fire,
that doesn't crackle too loud,
or burn whatever is in it's heat.
It burns up softly yet silently,
like a gas fire that hisses,
almost passionately but burning twice faster.
It's effective; that's what it is.
Silent but effective.
It produces the desired effect.

My ambition was born in turmoil,
subjected to contempt,
grew up in shame,
trained in strain,
and left to mature in difficulty.
It is a product of patience,
but is not in itself.. because it pushes,
it fights.
It fights to become what it pleases.
It creates a want so loud in me,
but also creates a need to keep it silent.
To be patient, till the right time is nigh.

Ambition is ambition,
whether loud or silent,
realistic or unrealistic,
priceless or has a huge price to pay.
Keep stroking the flame,
whether minute, typical or immense,
till it completely burns you up,
puts you to flames,
to be.. to become.. to live.
To be the ultimate you.
Dream. Live. Repeat.
& that, Ladies and gentlemen, is
my silent ambition.

Pocketful of sunshine

I have one full pocket!
One pocketful of sunshine.

And  it's blinding,
beautiful but blinding.
Beautifully blinding,
that beyond the horizon is a place,
a place we can go,
a place we can abide in.
A place that is binding.
Binding us to solace, 

beautifully binding.
We're lost but can find it,
even when we're hiding,
It's right there in our pockets,

full and to the brim,
beautifully shining.

Dig into your pocket,
your pocket of bliss..
because everyone has it,
I do, you do, we do
all have a
pocketful of sunshine.

The Writing's on the Wall

I

The graffiti paint, wearing of,
still speaks the language,
a,b,c,d..the letters on the wall.
1,2,3,4..the numbers on the wall,
are falling off.
They're old and of age..
Beaten to their sweet demise,
by the accurate mixture,
of wind, sun and rain.
Accurate torture.
Of weak fun that's pain.
But what to gain?
Is the writing still on the wall?
Is the message in it still visible?
The paint is the voice in the artistic
man's pain.
Is he paid?
No.
He's vandalizing.
You don't get paid to destroy.
To defame.
To autocorrect,
the rich, those in power, those with hunger (greed).
He tires, the one with the spray can.
For every time he wakes up,
he remembers, he's the one with hunger.
The real hunger.
He remembers,
that last night he ate, barely..
that last night he drank, barely..
that last night he smiled, barely..
Yet he's supposed to remain,
legally blind to his pain.
Will this always remain the same?
No time for questions he has no answers for.
He has to rush to work.
His t-shirts are messy from his workmanship.
His fingers permanently painted on the tips,
his lips, cracking from the thirst,
he has,
for a future he passed.
He's a few years older than his age,
the writing's on his page,
on the bus to work,
contemplating the next painting,
of his paining soul's tears,
or of painting his worst fears.

II

He decides not to go to work,
and changes his bus.
He takes the one headed south,
near the old mining stations,
away from the bustling city
of Johannesburg.
He has his bag with him,
the bag with his spray cans,
never left it behind.
He stops the bus near the neglected bridge.
It's funny.
How bridges were meant to connect,
yet this one was a disconnect.
How far is Soweto from his current position?
How far is his rich boss drinking his coffee from here?
He's hungry. He remembers.
Jumps over the rocks and
makes his way to under the bridge.
His second home.
Where he comes to think.
Comes to live.
Comes to forget all his troubles.
He's familiar to the smell of this place.
Uncomfortable but still, familiarity
bred no contempt for him,
but a longing...
A longing for belonging.
He belonged here.

III

He opened his knapsack,
pulled out his cans
and got to work.
These walls were as clean as the
politics of his days.
But he saw them beautiful in his head.
He had them drawn.
He had them spray-painted,
beautifully.
Something breath-taking,
something mind-blowing.
All in his head.
Now it was show-time.
To replicate it on the wall.
To leave his mark.
To write his legacy.
To make his point.
To paint his vision.
He started by writing,
a phrase or two..
And even before he started painting,
the letters he wrote spelled out his vision,
the numbers added up to what he was going to paint.

IV

Is the writing still on the wall?
Are the words he wrote, out of conviction,
hungry but satisfied,
still spelled out on the wall?
I know he painted too.. but the words,
the words he wrote that would describe the painting,
are they still on the wall?
He was patient with them,
carving one letter after the other,
loving one number after the other,
putting them together spelling out
what I really want to know.
What we all want to see.
What did he say to these walls,
under the bridge?
The bridge that was taken down,

the walls, remaining..but broken,
a few years ago, after he passed on.

Did the message also pass on?
A message of the neglected
neglected again?
I guess we'll never know.
No. We'll never read.
No. We'll never see,
this writing under the bridge.
Yes. The writing's on the wall.

The beautiful ones are yet to be born

There's a tune to this string,

a ring to the sound of it.

It circles the wildest of thoughts,

and encompasses the most random of 

directions.

Who got lost first?

Who found the right way at last?

It's a mayhem, for we are in this 

mystical place,

with everything but a tune to dance to.

The clouds are forming and the lightning 

striking..

It's grey and gloomy, outwardly frightening.

Do you see the hills?

Can you feel the valleys?

It's just a matter of time before you float 

to the surface.

Peek above into the distance and 

tell me if the peaks do not excite you.

Wish upon the stars and

tell me if the moon does not revolve around you.

Dive into the depths and

tell me if the abyss does not embrace you.

It's pointless if it's bottomless.

It's scary if it's wishful.

Open your eareyes and shut your mouth.

Grab a glass and quench your thirst.

Sit at the table of the learned and

teach them to unlearn.

Run with the winners.

Don't dine with the whiners.

Sleep till you wake up

and when you do,

don't go back to sleep.

Sleep is for the weak,

they win those who are quick.

Tighten the seatbelts and drive to your destination.

It's a calling if you feel it,

you haven't reached there if it's still unanswered.

Grab the torch of fire and light your way out,

walk steadily and readily,

in silence and undoubtful.

Shed the loose feathers and rise to your altitude,

for the eagle that can easily fly, 

is the eagle that can't easily die.

Dare to dream and dream to dare..

Such is life that you never finish where you start,

so dare to dream when you're starting,

dream to dare before you finish.

Wrap up your ambition in an unbreakable foil of emotion,

like of eggs, taken good care of,

eyes on the goals no matter what.

Score immediately you get the chance,

be invincible to your obstacles

and invisible to your enemies.

Life is a merry-go-round,

so make merry as you go around.

Forget you not, at the end of the day, that,

the beautiful ones are yet to be born.

This man in the mirror

This man in the mirror,
is me and yet, not me.
He is not me. He is yet to be me.
He stares back like he knows me,
I look at him like he's got it all wrong.
He thinks he is me.
He smiles like he's me.
He moves like he's me.
His eyes look like mine,
His everything too.
But he is not me.
This man in the mirror is not me.
He is me in the mirror.
The me now, the now me.
That'll be gone when I,
tighten my tie up, as he,
tie my shoelaces, as he,
adjust my smile, as he,
and step away,
leaving him behind.
This man in the mirror is me,
but won't be me when I leave.
For when I come back,
this man in the mirror,
will be a different me.
So he is not me.
Me is yet to be me.
He is yet to be at the level of me.
I am me, he is, but just,
this man in the mirror.

WILD

Let's cut to the chase
and accept she's wild.
The pleasure is in her pursuits,
and her victories, in the mind.
She's incomparably adequate,
she's one of a kind.
The test of time her witness,
in weakness, peace she finds.
Her strength's golden,
her misgivings blind.
She wins when she wants to,
she puts her failures behind.

Let's cut to the chase
and accept she's wild.
Wild like the flowers,
wild like the fruits of the wild.
Wild like the lions,
wild like the cubs in the jungle .
She's wild like the cheetah,
catch you fast before you even cheat her.
She's wild like the deer, oh dear,
graceful and full of peace.
She's as wild as that tree that blossoms in the winter,
wild as that stream that flows in the desert,
wild as that storm that rages in the ocean,
getting whatever it wants and
getting rid of whatever's in its way.

Let's cut to the chase
and accept she's wild.
She's wild because the world is wild.
She yearns to embrace it, the world is wide.
Her ambition is priceless,
her motivation timeless.
She's wild because she has to.
Too much to live for,
yet too little a time to live it for.
She has to be wild..
See, the world is cold,
if you're mining for it's gold.
She has to win,
she wants to win.
But to win, she has to fight.
To fight, she has to be wild.

Let's cut to the chase
and accept she's wild...
we have no other option.
She's beauty and brains,
how wild could it get.
The weight of the world on her shoulder,
is the backpack with her books
as she goes to school.
To learn the art,
to finesse her walk out of this wilderness.
She's wild for the night,
she's wild for the day.
Whatever you say, she's wild.
Has been, is and will be,
till she gets that crown on her,
her beautiful head.
Wild, yes, she's wild.

The traveller's soliloquy

I walk a traveller on this road,

on this road that has been carved,

that has been carved in wood,

in wood and has been drawn,

been drawn on a canvas,

on a canvas, worn out yet new,

yet new of experiences,

experiences of tomorrow's painting,

tomorrow's painting, of tomorrow's footprints,

tomorrow's footprints of a traveller.

Footprints of a traveller, my footprints.

My footprints for I am that traveller.

My feet are full of dust, my shoes worn out,

my knees are weak, but strengthened,

by the wind I walk against, the rains I dance in,

the storms I run into, enlightening me with lightnings,

of acknowledgment, of approval..

Discouragements have been tides,

I've rose above, ridden over.

Disappointments have been trips,

I've taken aboard my spaceship,

but never tripped on them.

So now like Johnny I have to keep walking,

I have to keep stalking my dreams,

stroking my guitar strings,

as I sing myself hoarse into the greys of the nights.

Walking the talk, has never been harder.

Miles into my journey, the less I talk,

the less I have to prove.

The more I talk, the short I fall under.

Am human. I stink of mistakes,

almost as much, the scent of my victories.

It's a mystery.

For a journey with a history,

not as sweet as honey,

living days for tomorrow,

leaving stress and sorrow,

behind.. Solving puzzles,

walking through mazes,

and still, am I there yet?

When will this be over?

When will I walk and look not over my shoulders?

When will I walk and look to see the holder?

Of the prize of the walk at the end of the journey?

And we will sit by the bonfire,

reflections of yesterday woven into our conversations,

for what is life spent without motivation?

What is light bent without a refraction?

A beneficiary of a life well lived?

I'll keep walking till I get there.

For no other option have I;

I am a traveller.

Soul Speak

Soul Speak,
let our souls speak,
let our souls utter,
the things that matter,
speak to each other..
Let the lips of our souls touch each other,
speak to the peak of their voices,
make noises,
make choices,
to speak..


Speak the unspoken thoughts of our being,
speak the unbroken chords of our thinking,
make music to dance to,
poetry to snap to,
words of wisdom and knowledge, to live up to,
heights so high to reach up to.
Let our souls speak.
Let MY soul speak!


Yes. Let MY soul speak..
It's dying to speak,
it's dying to live and let live,
to express the unexpressed,
impress the unimpressed!
My soul seeks for heartbeats,
a background beat to it's lyrics,
a living rhythm to it's unspoken words!


Let my soul speak, just let it!
Let it speak in tones and undertones,
you never knew existed.
Let it speak in vocals,
you never heard at any recital.
Let my soul speak, just let it!
Let it speak to your soul...
Let them converse.
Let them chat.
Let them have a tete-a-tete,
face to face,
soul to soul..
Let our souls speak!!
Let them speak and promise me,
yes you, you promise me, that.,
you will be willing to listen.
You will be willing to listen to the words of old that are gold,
that will mold and behold,
you will stand bold and unashamed,
wiser and grown.
No regrets.

For before we begin to strip down naked to our souls,
ungag them and let them speak,
fearless of retribution,
unbound to persecution,
in our mentally conceived jail institutions,
our souls will not be free..
They yearn to be free,
they long to be released,
they desire to be out in the open,
unrestricted by what the society has taught us.
They are desperate to be freed..
Free to speak, free to teach,
free to express our inner emotions,
our will to live,
our drive to thrive.
Hashtag #TeamLetOurSoulsSpeak

What life is without death

Death is a pretty little liar,

a selfish coward with intents of fire

to life it's jealous of.

Like from a cough to a coffin,

often a stranger to familiarity,

an orphan to strength and credibility.,

adopted to stress and vulnerability..

he knows nothing but wants everything.

He's blind to happiness,

for all he sees is darkness..

Grief. Misery. Affliction.

Devoid of affection, full of imperfections,

a complexion reflection of ingratitude,

an unfair measure to lives lived,

good or bad,

untimely and annoyingly full of grudges,

from the past. Blasts of no hard feelings

turned into yes hard feelings.

It's a gift undeserved to many,

not earned, not fought for.

Why would death be so cheap?

Get some class, mate.. 

Life is a million steps ahead.

Why?

Because Life, to start with, is expensive.

Classy not trashy.. She's beautiful and

bereft of blemish. She is flawless.

Like a tigress, as vicious as she is,

can never eat her own cubs.

She's magnificent. 

Green of the shrubs,

Queen of the lands she treads on,

gracefully. 

She has learnt to speak peace

and love is her mother tongue.

Her smile is heart-warming 

and her tongue conveys no ill.

She is adored for her dealings,

with people from all walks,

because she's a gift not a curse,

she heals, she cares, she's there.

Always there when you need her.

Her presence ignites joy profound,

and her ability to exist anywhere,

makes this world a better place!

Seriously, what would the world be,

without her? Her-less? Life-less?

Yes. I knew you'd see it that way too!

The world would be lifeless.

But then again,

as beautiful as she is, often at times,

she's taken for granted.

Used, abused and misused.

She's gone through a lot. 

Different people treat her different.

But her value still remains.

she's priceless!

And what she is without death is a marvel.

A novel with a happy ever after tale,

a stream that never stops flowing,

a well that never runs dry,

a road that leads to fulfillment.

Yet.. All good things must come to an end.

The end justifies the means for her,

if she was well lived,

or undeserved.

Fantasy it would be: What life is without death.

Tomorrow is another day

One day today,
one day tomorrow;
The essence of tomorrow,
is in the presence of today.
Yes. Tomorrow is another day.
No. Today is not another day.
Today is the day tomorrow is born,
for yesterday is weary, worn out and gone.
Its fire is burnt out, the smoke is lost,
the heat of today, should be worrying you most,
that'll be better than yesterday's ghost,
even hotter tomorrow at any given cost..
You light it, don't fight it.
Live by it.
Breathe through it.
Heck. Even breathe it out,
through your nostrils,
because you mean business.
Business today, pleasure tomorrow.
Yes, tomorrow is another day.

One Night Stand

It was a one night stand,
a one night stand with destiny.
It sure is not what she wanted it to look like,
but it is now, all she ever wanted.

Because tonight the sun will shine

Draw the curtains, raise the blinds,
like the morning light has touched the dew,
for it might be night but the day is new,
and few will see,
this light tonight I call magnificent.

Draw the curtains, raise the blinds,
the stars tonight won't shine,
bright enough, or, sparkle enough,
for the blind to see,
for the little children to wish upon.

Draw the curtains, raise the blinds,
the moon tonight will cower behind,
the calm emotionless clouds of the sky,
and the calmness of the sea,
will reflect not its rays.

Draw the curtains, raise the blinds,
blow out the candles and switch off the lights,
the rays of sunshine should well enough spread the life,
for this beauty I foresee,
will last a lifetime.

Draw the curtains, raise the blinds,
because tonight the sun will shine.

Echoes from the deep

Echo.. Echo.. Echo.. Echo..

So a thought, I have..
Of the reflection, I have..
This reflection of soundwaves.,
everytime I shout down into this,
deep, almost empty - but fills me up - well.
This well of promises and wellness.
Me on this end and you on the other.
Sun scorching my back,
the cold wind of the night slapping against it.
I'll bend it all down for you, my back,
just to talk to you.,
actually, with..
just to talk with you.
And it's beautiful, it's just amazing!
Because, everytime
I say something,
you say something.
You even hear my whispers,
and whisper back to me,
the pebbles I drop down there,
I hope, really, that none ever hits you,
it's the echoes I fish for,
to know you still care,
to know you're still there.
The voices that come back.

I have had nights I cried down to you,
hoping my tears would rise,
the levels, for me, to see your eyes,
but only the sobs keep coming back.
Does it mean you cry when I cry?
Laugh when I laugh?
See, I just smiled.
Did you smile as well?
Did your lips curve, not upwards,
but downwards, just as mine did?
Tell me you did, am listening.
The voices that come back.

I know you listen,
because you answer.
I know you feel almost the same as I do.
Because every single time,
I say "I love you",
the voice that comes back says
"I love you" too.
- "I miss you"
- "I miss you" too.
The voices that come back.

And when it rains, I hope, it pours.
I hope the water will fill up the well,
and you will rise to the surface..
and hug me, hug me tight and everything,
everything will be alright.
I have your towel ready,
to dry you up immediately you come through.
I have a change of clothes too,
all ready, and fitted for you.
I promise you,
I won't mind the rain,
I'll let the drops sooth my back,
from the sun-scorching and wind-slapping,
I'll soak and it won't be enough,
to pay back for the soaking you have.
I want to be your hero,
when the waters reach a hundred from zero.
I long to see you, and am excited!
Why?
Because the clouds are forming.
The voices that come back.

The first drop from the sky, and into the well..
and am here waiting to hear its sound come back,
among all these other
echoes from the deep.

Sitting on the pavement

Sitting on the pavement,

and it's like 3 a.m., in the morning.

The party is over, the one with the reduced cover.

Dude still sober, but dude won't budge.

He's been outchea, sitting on the pavement.

Clean-shaven, and clothes well adorned,

browsing through his phone,

while thinking to himself.

Too many books on his shelf,

too many movies on his Netflix.

He thinks to fix,

he seeks to clarify.

Nothing to glorify.

The dots he joins,

the paths he chose,

led him to this pavement,

he is sitting on,

he is thinking on,

he is thriving on.

The cars speed by, 

occasionally stopping for the lights.

It's dark, he reckons,

the street lamp above flickers.

Then, the occasional hiccup,

like the path he treads on has had.

Hiccups.. His cup wouldn't be any fuller.

At least, it's not half-empty,

it's half-full.

For being her fool.

Her run-to tool.

But still manages sanity.

He stays sane insane,

all in vain.

See the blood flow in his veins?

It's anger he can live with,

and excitement he's been deceived with.

Drunk couples walk out from the clubs,

passing by him, staggering.

Some say hi, others say bye.

Hand in hand, if they're done puking,

on each other, he hopes.

Pleasures he sees but can't feel,

leisure he stumbles upon but can't enjoy.

The world is crooked and twisted,

in his own opinion.

He's entitled to it, so to fit in straight,

he must, 

to live with his decisions,

would be just.

And fair.. That the friends he made,

20 years ago in high school,

live the life of their dreams,

with the spouse of their dreams.

Him? Haha 2nd divorce, and counting,

2 litres of alcohol in his system,

plus the 2 he had the night before.

It's true, 2 wrongs do not make a right,

but it's wrong to say, 

2 lies do not make the truth..

less what it is.

He needs two lives.

The one with the mistakes and,

the one he would be careful with.

His bus arrives. The doors swing open.

He raises up from the pavement,

a little bit of stagger in his stance,

glad he didn't have to drink and drive,

no, not tonight,

dusts off his new pants,

reaches for the token he'd saved for the ride,

in his pocket,

it's torn. It fell off somewhere. He groans.

And goes back to his earlier position;

Sitting on the pavement.

That bright flower

That bright flower, you are.

You are, that bright flower, just,
that bright flower in the middle of a desert,
that bright flower floating on the surface of the ocean,
that bright flower in the middle of a snowstorm,
that bright flower floating in air, in the middle of a hurricane.

You're far from an oasis in the desert you live in,
your roots so short to anchor you to the bottom of the ocean,
your endurance to cold is wanting, to storms, inexistent,
your weight cannot hold you down, you're helpless in the air..

Yet no petals dry and fall off of you,
yet no wave comes and tears you apart,
yet no cold shrivels your existence,
yet no wind blows any pollen from your anthers.

You are that bright flower!
That bright flower that gives moisture to that which is dry,
that bright flower that calms the waves and slows the currents,
that bright flower that melts the snow and stills the storms,
that bright flower that makes the winds weak by its attractiveness.

You brighten up your environs and illuminate that which is dark,
you are that bright flower.
You irradiate beauty and magnify perfection,
appeasing all the aesthetic senses,
you are that bright flower.

& as the dust in the desert worships your beauty,
& as the waves of the ocean shower you with praises,
& as the flakes of snow kiss you with admiration,
& as the winds embrace you with love and affection,
so does my heart beat for your attention.

You are, after all, that bright flower.

Sirens in her head

Even when there was silence around her,
each and every single night..
there were sirens in her head.
Sirens. Loud sirens. That kept going.
On and on, on and off, off and off.
There were noises in the backyard,
there were voices in the front yard.
The screaming and shouting,
was awakening the demons,
her dark and ugly inner demons.
The police cars were chasing,
the ambulances were racing,
the firefighters' trucks were pacing
her peace away,
piece by piece, draining her energy,
her zeal to live.
Her dreams for the future,
getting ripped off from the picture,
the camera shutter sounds,
turning into stutter sounds,
of loud annoying music,
that the DJ wouldn't stop playing.
The party was at its peak,
and the crowd that she had picked,
kept jumping and dancing,
and bumping into her,
kept screaming the lyrics,
she didn't know to her favorite songs,
her favorite dress was sparkling blue,
the makeup she had on was sparkling too,
this night as she had dreamt was a dream come true,
Déjà vu.
It was fun she wanted that she wasn't having.
It was a crime she was committing that she hadn't planned.
It was a trip down memory lane that she couldn't remember.
Uncalled for drama.. was she living her dream?
No. Because she woke up screaming,
and the sirens were gone;
the sirens in her head.

Cry me a river

Cry me a river.
Your problems are absolutely worth more tears,
trust me.
Cry me a river, I'm listening...

Cry me a river about the many times,
you have fallen, you have failed.
The many times you have fallen
sick, weak, tired and disgusted of life.
The many times you have fallen
and couldn't get back up on your feet.
The many times you have fallen
for someone who broke your heart.
The many times you have fallen
by yielding to temptation.
The many times you have fallen
face in the face of trial,
the face of trouble,
the face of sudden betrayal.
Those many times.

Cry me a river about that fever,
about that sickness that gives you the shivers,
the baby you conceived you're not ready to deliver,
the hangover at work, & your boss, not being a forgiver,
the accidents you've caused your life for being a reckless driver,
eating leftovers, whining and dining as an underachiever,
giving up hope thinking it's all over,
allover around you, failure hovers.
Moreover, the odds never having been in your favor.

You could be much more, so cry it all out.
Dry your well of tears on my shoulder,
Wet my shirt and soak my ears.
Cry me a river, friend.
Sob to sleep, if you have to,
Scream and shout, if you want to,
Lose your voice, if you can't help to,
I'll be right here, cry me a river.

It only gets better.
The wars you fight today are victories you'll live with for a lifetime.
The battles you lose today are opportunities to fight harder.
Opportunities to live for another day,
a better tomorrow.
I'll allow you to cry me a river for now,
only if you'll build a bridge and get over it.
Only if you'll realize that you are meant
for so much more.
So much more happiness,
So much more potential,
So much more ambition,
So much more success.

So, cry me a river.

Take a selfie

Take, take, take all you want,
Bite, bite, bite all you can chew,
Be, be, be all you can be,
But first and foremost, take a selfie.

Take a selfie;

Take a selfie of your life,

of your past and present,

and of the future you desire.

Take a selfie of your ambition to succeed,

and of your fear to fail.

Take a selfie of your highs,

and of your lows,

your YESs and your NOs.

Take a selfie of your has-been,

and of your could-have-beens,

of your accomplishments and your regrets.

Take a selfie of your perfect imperfections,

and of your imperfect perfections.

Take a selfie when you are in the moment,

and when you snap out of it,

in your zone and out of it.

Take a selfie.

It is not until we take a selfie that we realize,

how beautiful an ugly can be,

how pretty disgusting can be,

how adorable despicable can be,

how amazing boring can get,

how extrospective introspection can get.

They say: "You never know until you try"

and I'm sure you'll never fully spread your wings until you fly.

Take a selfie and fly,

take a selfie and touch the sky.

You are your own drive,

your own ambition. 

The further you can see, the closer you will get there.

You are your own vision.

You design your destiny. 

You will know how to build it by knowing who you are.

Go stand in front of a mirror and, wait for it,

take a selfie.

Take a selfie at your weakest point and you will determine your strongest.

Take a selfie at your lowest point and you will rise to the highest.

A selfie a day keeps the doctor away,

the doctor that would remind you how much you hate yourself,

the doctor who will prescribe doses of insecurities on insecurities,

the doctor who will show your bad side to the world,

the doctor who will wreck your self esteem to fix something else,

not broken.

I repeat, you are your own doctor.

Treat yourself to a selfie,

examine your life in this sense,

broaden your knowledge,

and cure your issues,

cry if you have to,

and while at it, take a selfie with the tissues.

Healing comes from within,

if only we'd look back, pose, smile,

and take a selfie.

I'll wind this up with this corrupted new saying,

"When life gives you lemons, take a selfie;

then make lemonade and take a selfie, another selfie"

Never Again

A tear is shed, a prayer is shared,
of a fear smeared into our hearts,
of a spear pierced deep into our souls.
Cheers gone, drowning in beers,
ears unclosed, eyes wide open.
It's clear there's care,
as everyone stares into space,
but still, nothing appears,
save for the glare of doom,
and shreds of terror,
the music of gunshots,
and screams, loud screams, pleading for mercy,
broken and wounded, beyond repair,
shattered and wrecked, into despair..
The sores on the scores of people that are here,
the people I endear, are terrible,
very painful.
For flashback's sake, 20 years into the future:
2 years back then, 2 decades wiser.
Wiser enough to know never again,
never again.
Lessons from the past,
first, because, once bitten,
second, because, twice shy.

Third, because, why not?
Why not learn from the wounds,
the scars and the trauma?
and save the drama.
The pain, the regrets?
Never again.
Different paths were created then,
over a thousand hills and into the world,
the rest of it.
My prayer now,
is that these paths converge,
and intentions merge,
towards peace,
towards forgiveness,
towards reconciliation,
and towards healing.
Onto a higher level,
the "onto the future" level.
Never again.


In remembrance of the Rwandan Genocide, 1994.

Shisha to my lungs

Shisha to my lungs? yes!
You are, Shisha to my lungs,
You are, good poison to my fangs.
You are the air I breathe, the life I live.
Yes! You are, Shisha to my lungs.

You are an amazing invention by yourself,
devoid of imperfections.
Maybe that's why all of me loves all of you.
Maybe. But honestly, you're like a diamond.. my rock, my diamond,
You look so good, every night.,
that you'd make Beyonce reconsider her flawlessness when she wakes up,
With all the stakes up, like Drake, up,
you leave me countless times on my worst behavior.
You are my savior, for in countless times you've saved me,
and that's why I want you to show me..
Show me. Why? Because you remind me of something,
and I don't know what it is.
Show off. I just wanna show off too.
Because, guess what? What I live for is to spend every Weeknd with you,
is to catch a grenade for ya,
throw my hand on a blade for ya,
But would you die for me, or nah?
is to be in my zone and declare "No new friends"
because you're more than enough.
is to pour it up, pour it up,
and still got my money.
Even if we'll party like we are 23,
you won't need to twerk,
for me to let you know how much I adore you.
We can't stop. & it won't stop,
'Till we get it, I'mma get it,
this should be simple, we'll love more.
I'm prepared to love you long,
even to the year 3005,
I pledge bed peace, no Childish antics,
Jhene Aiko knows.
Now that you got me up all night,
let me take you on a power trip,
or to the stars in the outer space,
and we gonna let it burn burn burn burn.
I'll sing you Songz like oh na na,
and get your head BOBing up down,
because it'll be so good.

I'll make you addicted to my music playlist,
and all these tunes will ring through our ears,
throughout the years.
See, you flavor my worst fears,
and vapor my last tears..
just like Shisha would.
So maybe sing to me or listen with me,
chill to my playlist, as we share this session,
feed this obsession with confessions,
and relieve out our stresses on meditation.
We'll shuffle the tunes,
and replay the playlist..
but before we're done smoking,
please let me remind you,
that you are Shisha to my lungs,
Yes, you are beautiful.

What breaks a man

"What breaks a man?", I ask.

Man for woman, Man for man,

Man for someone, anyone;

What breaks a man?

As trees grow, so does man,

As time goes, so does one realize,

that anything can break them.

Visualize the trees, anything can break them.,

but not all of them, resilience.

So you ask, what breaks a man?

Is it the presence of failure or the absence of success,

or the lack of understanding that both mean something but nothing?

Is it the dawning of sadness or the setting of happiness,

or the lack of motivation to remind them why they smiled,

why they started,

why they never need to frown,

why they are still alive? Hope.

Is it the opening of the doors of hopelessness or the closing of the doors of opportunities,

or the fact that they obscured the sight of them creating a better tomorrow?

Maybe it is the plight of the flight they chose to take in life,

and the limits they hit and the boundaries they reached.

What has the world been telling you?

That you can't make it?

That you are good for nothing?

That your past will define your future?

That you should be intimidated by the reality others have created for themselves? Please stop, dream.

Dream that dream that people will say you had,

Climb that hill that people said you couldn't,

Be that man that people say you aren't...

That man who can't be broken,

That man who sees potential in his ambition,

That man who lives for today and for tomorrow,

for tomorrow, the sun will shine,

the snow you hate will melt away.

That man who sticks and stones may break his bones,

but his strong will will always and forever remain unscathed,

That man who has been broken and torn apart, 

many a times but still stands strong..

torn apart, for his inability to deserve better. 

You deserve better, or at least, the best.

But what will break you?

What will break you when your will to succeed is matched with work and determination?

What will break you if you see the darkness, yes, plus the light at the end of the tunnel?

What will break you if you can rise above your fears to reach for the clouds?

What will break you if you know you are where you are for a reason and season and will be where you want to be when it's done?

Nothing. Nothing will break you.

But just in case anything breaks you, remember;

What will break you is what will make you.

It's not about that addiction, that's fiction,

please let me explain.

It's not about that failure, hell yeah!

just let me explain.

It's not about that breakup or divorce he/she forced,

so let me explain,

It's not about the terminal illness, the death of that special someone,

skyrocketing poverty situation, no job, no nothing, hear this,

and let me explain..

It is about your resolve to keep pushing when the surface gets rough,

& when the going gets tough, being that tough one that will get going.

Maybe not today, probably not tomorrow,

something will try to break you, make it make you.

Make it make you what you have always wanted to become, thank you.

Lead, she said.

Lead, she said.
Lead my follow and I will follow your lead,
Fill my cup and bottle the lid,
Feel my hunger to grow and feed it,
Till my thirst to go anymore is extinguished.

Lead, she said.

She said lead me because she was afraid,
Afraid, she had too much to live for yet too little to die for,
Afraid that she wanted the world but couldn't find her place,
Afraid that she knew too much but spoke so little,
Afraid that you only live once but die within so many times,
Afraid that she knew where she wanted to go but still needed someone to follow,
She said lead me because she was afraid.

She needed someone to lead her.
Someone who wouldn't quit on her,
Someone who wanted to win just as bad as she did,
Someone who knew that winners never quit and quitters never win,
Someone who had everything and nothing to lose.. including the way.
Someone who didn't just talk the talk but walked the walk.
She needed someone to lead her.

Lead, she said.
So hear out a promise, a promise to lead,
for when we stumble we won't fall,
when we struggle I'll heed your call,
The sun won't rise where it sets,
so rest assured, where there's trouble our feet won't step,
In the jungle, our will won't sleep.
Even if the mountains might be steep, we will climb them,
The streams might be deep, we will swim across them.
And whatever comes our way,
Whether night or even day,
We will weigh the options,
grab the once in a lifetime opportunities we meet,
steady our feet, dance to the beat,
follow our dreams, as a team,
and maybe, I'll make her wish come true.
Lead, she said.

To write love on her arms

To write love on her arms

To write love on her arms,to me is not enough.,Maybe start from the palms,smoothly, not rough.,Make her hold them out like for alms,or as of to a police for a cuff.,and I will illustrate how comes,to make her laugh was not as tough.,why to see her happy calms,why in her joy I'm engulfed.,Write right into . the pits of her arms, it tickles she laughs.,I smile then we L.O.L ,;, we Love.Out.Loud.

The Human Race

On your mark, get set, GO!
& we are born into a race,
like no other race,
a race where the start line is startling,
and the finish line is certain but undefined,
a race you race because racing is, the only option,
call it, the race of all races;
The Human Race.

What is this race that we run it?

What is this life that we live it?

Let's take a step back, or two..

okay, we'll do two., and look at the big picture.

Yes, because it's easier if we learnt,

not from our own, in this race we don't own,

not by our own, in these lanes we race on,

but from the races of others, their mistakes,

and successes, their experiences,

and regrets.. hence we will learn.

We will learn that the race is too short,

short a sport to spot time fly by so quick,

that as racing is a constant process of crossing the finish line,

living is a constant process of dying.

That the distance the athletes covered before us,

is variant and short and needed more time,

time that was lost and never recovered.

& by that we will learn that the chances we get at pushing ourselves,

the chances we get at increasing the strides,

the chances we get at hitting the overlap,

are chances we might never get again.

And again, we will learn,

that we are the masters of our own destinies!

That we have the power of speed in our tongues,

and can determine,

how faster we run to our own destinations.

That we each have the hour to make our turns,

and we would never undermine,

how faster we'd reach profound acclamation.

And further we would learn,

that the further we could run,

is dictated by the further we could dream.

Nothing ever just happens, we would learn,

but as desire is to effort,

result is to dream.

We desire our dreams, that, we would learn too,

and if the dream was to successfully cross the finish line,

we would run, as if our lives depended on it.

Oh yes, but why, our lives depend on it..

It is, after all, The Human Race.

The world would cheer you on as you raced,

others would choose to call you names,

as the rest would be panting, heavily, beside you,

running for the same crown designed for you,

and praying hard, they would be,

that you tripped down, 

and reduced competition.

Selfish ambition.

Isn't it fortunate that we would learn,

that winning is not everything?

That we would learn that we win some and lose some?

In the words of Chetan Bhagat, we would learn that,

"Nothing is to be taken seriously" and that,

"Frustration is a sign somewhere, you took it seriously"

We would avoid frustrations!! How awesome is that?!

We would learn that the people we race along with,

influence our racing capabilities.

That our capacity to achieve would be dependent,

on the friends we keep, on the company we race,

and the positive or negative effect they would have on us.

This right here, would teach us to love us.

We are our own lovers, we would learn,

no one would love you as good as you,

and this would propel us. 

This would make us accepting and acceptable,

accepting others for what they are in this race of humanity,

and accept that our worldly possessions are nothing,

but vanity.

Inasmuch as we seek to live in comfort,

we would learn that, the tracks ahead are subject to change,

and we would object to imposed conformity,

but versatility in expecting any changes whatsoever.

We would learn that to run long, 

we would need to learn long.

We would need to practice to make perfect,

in order to race against the clock,

and not against the flock, the others,

but carefully enough; as the slow and steady would win this race, 

The Human Race.

I'll cut to the chase, and put this phrase out there,

if life was a race, I'd tie my shoelaces, and take my space,

I would embrace my strengths and outpace my weaknesses,

I would erase my worries and face the rest,

I would run for first place, and outrace myself,

and then and only then, will I have fought the good fight,

will I have kept the faith..

and finished the race, The Human Race.

Surrender, not.

For when the road gets rough,
and the going gets tough,
I'll choose to surrender, not,
to the fight but surrender,
to the light that I follow,
the fight that I'm being fought for.
I'll be tough and get going,
I'll do enough to keep me growing,
just enough,
that  the light in me will keep glowing.
A friend once told me,
"Remember why you started"
and as a member of my own,
I chose then not to slumber,
and number sheep to my dreams,
but stay awake through the year,
January to December,
and gear up to my dreams.
I am a dreamer,
and a profound one.
See, when I was lost,
a pro at what He does, found one,
out of many,
and recreated purpose and strength,
will, creativity and immense
stability in the thoughts,
and actions? He's still working on them.
Like a potter to clay
I putter through my day,
not as casual,
but with peace that there is,
a better tomorrow,
shaped through happiness and sometimes sorrow,
in the open and sometimes in the shadows,
but like fire to Gold,
adversity in diverse ways,
has played it's part,
has trained my heart,
& I came out bold.
Tested and pure,
in control and secure.
And that's why I choose,
not  to surrender,
not to the sorrows,
not to the shadows,
not to the fire,
and definitely not to the adversity,
but to the strength I acquired,
the teaching I required,
and the journey that I traverse in,
everything that I admire.
In this mood that this caressing peace engulfs me in,
I could care less, but surrender, not.
I could bear less but forfeit, not.
I could break walls and regret, not.
I could stumble and fall but not stay down,
I could hit dead ends and still not frown,
but smile, full-time,
like a clown in the circus,
till I get my crown,
till I fulfil my purpose.

"Retreat, not. Surrender, not."

I want (Poetry.com)

Below is a poem I posted on the website Poetry.com, thanks to a friend's suggestion. The link to the poem on the website is http://www.poetry.com/poems/1153481-I-want

It's a good platform to check out what others have written and to publish your own poems and receive reviews, points and badges while at it. Get writing!!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hi Poetry.com,

I just met you, and this is crazy,

crazy, straight to the moon and back,

that I have expectations and ambitions,

(Wild ones) about this, our relationship.

This relationship we are about to grow in,

this relationship that we are about to throw ourselves in, to,

you and I, me and you. 

I am really excited, I won't lie,

and prepared to love you till I die.

I know, that escalated too quickly for your liking,

but trust me, I take my time,

to fall in love..

it's just that, it's., it's just that you,

yes, you. You came in like a wrecking ball,

and swept me off my feet,

and instead of wrecking me,

you gave me something to think about,

each time I close my eyes.

You make me feel like I can be your next and your last,

or your first with heartbeats so fast,

each time he hears your name.

Each time, he mentions you,

each time his attention is stolen by you.

Poetry.com, I have a future figured out for us,

and what I want in this relationship,

erm, this partnership,

ok, this somethingship,

is you to show your love for me,

to shower me with kindness and gifts,

make me your top poet,

rate mine, the top poems,

distinguish me, 

let me finish first Poetry.com,

let me extinguish the shine of the others from thine eyes,

because I'll work for it.

I'll win your heart,

I'll give you perfection!

You say the world? I will give you the universe,

I will deserve your affection,

no explanation here, I'm drowning in emotions,

and for the last time now, Poetry.com,

I pledge to be there for you,

to paint your walls with the most beautiful of words,

the most thoughtful of images.

I'll try to be funny, you'll love my humor,

I'll try to be creative, you'll love my ambition.

Let's be an item and let's rock this world.

oh and before I forget Poetry.com;

Valentine's Day is in a week's time,

*clears throat*

will you be my Valentine?