The Toiler's Diary

Today I worked hard, today I did my best.
I rose before the sun did and
am about to sleep, long after it set.
I'm weary now, but the feeling is priceless;
that today I did something,
today I accomplished.

I break my back, bend my neck,
all day, every day to feed my stomach,
and others' stomachs.
I have a Princess to feed, fam
and her Queen of a mother.
She toils too, she soils her hands,
she does better what any man would,
because she believes in the
law of returns:
reaping what we sow.

But what did I sow?
Is the hours I've put in,
the money I've got out?
Or what am I reaping?
I need the money,
that's why I work.
To pay my bills, to live.
But is it ever going to be enough,
for the castle I desire to build,
for the empire I desire to rule?
My Princess,
does she think of me as King,
or as the regular dad I've been?
Who is never home when she wakes,
and walks in late when she sleeps.

I am a toiler, and I work hard.
Partly, I'm proud of that.
But who do I work hard for?
Is it for me and my Kingdom,
or for the man who pays me?

The man I work for
making him a thousand-fold of
what he gives to me.
The man who, unknowingly,
holds the fate of my Kingdom
in his fat chubby hands.
Looking at mine,
they are hard and strong.
The nerves are showing
and the blood is flowing,
I can see it. It is flowing.
All these years of hard work,
all these tears from yard work.

I'll stop complaining now
and maybe jump into bed
because I'm needed early
tomorrow at work,
to repeat the cycle;
the toiler's cycle.

She's no angel

Peaceful, with grace and speed so swift, but still, a venomous viper. She's harmless until harm is in her way, and she strikes back the only way she knows how; two fangs deep.
She's no angel.

Beautiful and translucent, well-meaning and with no harmful intentions. Well, until, you swim right into her territories. She is like the sea wasp box jellyfish. She stays clear until you're far too near.
She's no angel.

Fast-acting and effective, a bit defensive and knows what she wants. She is like the deathstalker scorpion, true, and just don't step on her shoes... she strikes back real quick. fatal.
She's no angel.

Sweet and smells like honey. Diligent in her goings and altogether committed. She is like the Africanized Honey Bee, yes, aggressive and with stings so loud. She will chase you for miles, away.
She's no angel.

Colorful and pretty, easy on the eyes. She'll steal your breathe in seconds but please don't touch her. She is like the Poison Dart Frog., with poison enough to kill 10,000 mice, a drop of it to putting your soul to rest.. just by the single touch of her skin.
She's no angel.

Referred to by many as shy. Keeping to her ways and looking for no trouble. But when trouble comes knocking on her door, best believe me, she is like the Boomslang.. you heard that right. She will bite you where it pains the most and your blood will refuse to clot. She will bleed you dry.
She's no angel.

When they said do not judge 

a book by its cover,

they meant her. Wrapped up

in what is weakness to the 

gullible depraved man's eyes.

She is vicious

and her eyes determined.

Her voice, soft but demanding.

She is all levels of goodness

and it is the pain in her heart

that pushes her to live again.

Do not awaken the sleeping tigress

if you're not ready to deal

with her claws.

She's no angel.

Kush and Caterpillars

If all the highways would lead to High Park,

traffic would possibly be headed to higher heights.

In the evening hours,

the crimson-colored rays of the sun

paste and decorate the clouds with awe,

way far, near the horizon.

They say pain cures itself

and there's a magic in us

that can define our limits.

Lost souls seek a new beginning,

almost always.

They seek new paths

and save up for new shoes.

New shoes they can fit in
even if the last ones were better.

The cycle is longest when you have to,

shorter enough when you love to.

The winds know us by name

and the breeze in the trees,

has shared our breaths.

We are like a calm disaster,

that sinks the ship as the Captain sleeps.

We are like the wolves of the night

and we howl the loudest

when the full moon creeps upon us.

We are thorough and lacking at the same time
and the grasses shield us from want.
We know the meadows and
they've caressed our bellies and fed us.
We have climbed the mountains,
alongside the cool trickling waters.
We have quenched our thirsts
whenever we needed to
and we are now ready to conquer the world.
This is the most pain I have felt in a long while.
My head keeps buzzing and the
daylight burns my eyes..
the moonlight is unfriendly and
the mist has tried choking me once.
My insides are crumbling and
my legs are weak, almost falling off.
I postulate that that is what happens
when you are almost becoming
a butterfly.

Be my Confetti

I have been robbed of sleep before,
shutting my eyes tight but
my dreams too adamant to yield.
On nights like these,
is when I have deserted my beddings
and stepped into the cold.
I have tried making tea, then,
to sip myself to sleep
but there was not enough sugar
to sweeten up my despair.
I have felt strongly for the breeze of the night.
Because I have never understood
why darkness had to find a friend in cold.
It has to be not fair how
those summer nights are no more.
Where we would sit on rooftops
and smoke shisha.
We would catch up with life
and tell tales for days on end,
some of them made up, of course,
and there was absolutely no need for sleep.
But those summer nights die so fast.
They are gone before you even love them.
So you just miss them,
especially, on nights like these.
On nights like these have I introspected
even in public.
Not a hint of shame.
I would be dreaming
but I think I have mused enough.
Even my bed agrees I should abandon sleep
and work to realize the few fantasies I have
desired.
They all seem glittering and I do not know why.
I have yielded their potential
and it is sickening
that to dream one has to hope.
I'll hope no longer
and dive into the limelight.
I'll skip the shadows and clutch the show
because I'm tired.
I'm tired and I need to sleep.
I'm tired of those in the light not doing enough
when I am still hiding behind sleepless nights,
doing the most.
I will climb up the stage and
sing my voice hoarse.
and I hope when I'm done performing;
every tune your soul has ever craved to listen to,
every tune your soul has ever thirsted for,
every tune your soul has ever waited for to rise..

will be endlessly filled in your mind.

Rhythm.

and I hope it will soothe your tired limbs

and massage your broken heart.

I hope, you will be in furious excitement,
in sort of a frantic delirium,
and all over the place, in a wild frenzy.
We will forget this sleepless night
and you will embrace my genuineness.
You will cheer me on,
and you'll brighten me up!
You will rain over me and I'll gladly
own you.
You will be my confetti.

Transcendence

Immanence.

Emmanuel was his name:
"God with us'"

Have you ever heard of the Eden people?
They graced the beauty of the gardens,
as kindred, bred with innocence
and clothed with nothingness.
Soulmates are hard to come across,
especially if the roads we tread on
lead to the deserted places in our hearts.
It is even harder to keep them.
The wax on the candle seems
put and in shape,
unshaken and unmovable
until the match is struck.
How do apples fall from grace?
Do they wait for autumn too?
But the serpent hearts
slither even through the most purest.
A deceiving tongue and dishonest intentions.
The sun was the witness of all these.
The apple trees would grow and die,
the sun would still remain.
It had seen sin and truth,
lies and merciless wars.
He had seen peace and turmoil
and whether blood was spilled or not,
he had always paid devotion to the soil.
Wars were always a failure.
Anyone who stepped up for war
lost a bit of themselves in the mayhem.
The wise ones created none
and fought to keep peace flowing.
The rains would pour,
even in the most mystic places.
Where wounds were healed
and in where the rain itself was prayed for.
There was the unusual
upsetting of events
when someone remarkable
stepped up to a podium
and changed the face of the planet.
The doers, the movers, the shakers.
The very people who advanced us.
But it's confusing.
"We will all be judged by the courage in our hearts."
And it's not like times are not different.
The air we breathe has lost its fragrance
and the perfume in our hearts dampened.
The color of the blue sky has faded over time,
the blue in our oceans diluted.
I have heard praises are unsung
and hate is filled in the air.
To look good, we looked for wrongs.
Petty. We lost our pretty.
We have wanted so much
but have lost so much in this pursuit.
We have been wounded and love has left us.
We are empty and our banks are dry,
our wells cracking dry.
Now is the time we need each other.
We need us.
We need to open the floodgates
and let the love naturally flow.
To rise above hate,
we need to understand ourselves.
We are weak-willed sometimes
and unforgiving.
We are pretentious mostly
but it's something we could change.
If we would learn to love ourselves.
If we would learn to treasure who we are.
If we would learn to spread this love.
If we would learn to fight
only the fights we
are ready to be consumed with.

The Road Trip

To see the world, you have to travel.
& friends make the memories
last a little bit longer.
Last weekend, we embarked  on a road trip.
Me and three of my friends.
Fun people, beautiful souls.
I was behind the wheel
and the wheel felt the love in my hands.
The wheels felt the burnt tarmac
and they seemed to be in a fellowship.
The engine roared and we took off, we soared.
Slowly, through the streets with our woes.
We were going to forget them soon.
I maneuvered around the lights
and we found ourselves on the gracious highway.
Driving through the highways of Atlanta
was overwhelmingly dazzling.
The sun was out
and the green in the trees was striking.
The top was down and the breeze
caressed our faces
leaving us lost in high spirits.
All these cars speeding alongside ours;
where were they going?
Were they on a road trip too?
Nobody knows.
I pulled into a gas station,
several miles away from the high way.
It was the closest one the GPS could find.
It was in an isolated town
and there seemed to be no owner.
I had worked at a service store before
so I knew how to tilt the levels to our favor.
With a full tank,
we headed to the closest liquor store.
My friends thought it better
to stock well before we got crazier ideas.
The day was still young and unmotivated.
It seemed we were up to mischief,
weekend shenanigans.
On our way back, to be honest,
I was a bit tipsy.
Everyone else was drunk to their bones, wasted.
The music was bumping loudly
and we stole a couple of glances, here and there.
We stopped about three times
to drink some more and to stretch and dance.
Dusk was falling rapidly
and I could see the lights blaze in the dusking sky.
Glorious evenings.
I suggested we should get back going
and we hit the road again.
There was too many thoughts
paragliding through my head.
It felt like a floating hot-air balloon
which was having too much hot air blowing into it.
I had caught fire, my arms were trembling!

I was uneasy in my seat and palms of sweat

trickled down my forehead.

I had done this before, I reminded myself.

I tried making jokes to regain my mind,

and would occasionally 

turn back to ask everyone the usual;

"Are we all okay?"  "Had fun?" haha
and as I turned back to face the road,
time froze.
I felt as if I was trapped in a vacuum
and running quickly out of oxygen.
My senses were numb,
mind flashing back years like I was watching a trailer. A fun trailer though.
The brakes were too far for my foot
and the gas pedal was still firmly pressed to the ground.
Everything gave way and
the red light I had missed
flashed into my soul as I heard the impact.
I saw the car crash from the side
and the pieces kept coming at me.
The truck had smashed right into the side
of the car and in seconds,
I felt torn into pieces and dismantled.

Lost.
Intense pain and then silence.
I was in a dark place all of a sudden.
The lights dimmed and I felt for nothing.
My senses were gone and I knew I had left.
I was driving no more,
I was drunk no more.
I was alive no more.

p.s: I still don't know if my friends survived. Please let me know if you run into them before I do. I owe them an apology.

The wars we won

My Lord, O King,
if you were to weep today;
weep not for the bitter storms at sea,
weep not for the vengeful warriors from the North,
weep not for the meager harvests,
nor for the scorching sun..
weep not for the flooding rivers
and unexpected flaws in nature we face.
Weep, however, for the wars we have won.
Yes. They demand your tears and
wishless remorse.
They demand you to strip off your robes
and walk in ashy and tattered sacks.
Let your strong hair be covered grey
and heart painted sad.
Let your cries be heard in the gates
and far into the marketplace.
Let the children hear their King cry,
their brave stronghold wail.
They demand you to beat your chest,
this time, in shame and disgust.,
because we could wish we had not.
The wars we won outstripped us.
They left us dazed and stupefied.
They left us feeling untouchable,
invincible.
They left us frenzied and drowning in liquor.
The guards were in merry and
our gates remained unprotected.
The wars we won.
We wanted more. We wished to conquer.
We felt like gods and in only you,
O noble King,
did we believe.
We were happy and oblivious of danger.
Hearken, my King, maybe we did not just do it
all by our might.
The heavens had opened that night
and the light was on our side..
blinding the enemy.
We have won before too.
This time we had found them asleep.
I remember this vividly,
how they woke up to their deaths.
Ambush. When we descended upon
the army of Palcedia.
They were not ready for us
and see what that did to them.
So weep my Lord,
and I will join you.
Heck! The entire Kingdom will
tread your steps.
We will cleanse these walls of all conceit
and redecorate your pathways.
We will humble ourselves
as how we have risen before.
The wars we have won
will be plucked from our eyesight
and we will march for tomorrow,
with our swords sharpened
and pride quietened.