my other side..

STRAY THOUGHTS.

If life was a maze,
Of lilies, roses and all pretty flowers,
Just which species will you be?
I once heard,
"A rose in another name will smell just as sweet"

That if humanity could get humans,
And knowing animosity is just for animals,
Why we're one yet different,
Why love is so close to hate,
And why a heart can bear both.

What makes you, you?
Are you part of the solution or the core of the problem?
If only we could see beyond ourselves,
Beyond our weaknesses,
To realise that even when lost we can actually find who we are.

A heart can be pure of all evils,
That a heart can love yet let go,
Like a young mother giving up a child for adoption,
These are just but my stray thoughts.

African wife..

SOMEONE'S WIFE!

Kwamboka,
My daughter do you want to kill me?
Is sending me to an early grave your intention?
Ei! Do you think I can live past the mockery of my fellow women?
Do you want to be the death of your father?
That we did not raise you well is unbearable!

The whole village knows,
That your house stinks,
Your children are filthy,
Your land remains untilled,
And your new scent is liquor,
Your husband eats from another man's pot!

My daughter,
Did I not teach you,
That a husband should be treated like a king?
That a married woman keeps her things in order?
Why do you ashame me with these strange traits?
Do you enjoy it when I am the village's laughing stock?

Kwamboka,
That you can not cook for your husband is a shame!
That you pay a fellow woman to wash your husband's garments is an abomination!
Ahah! Did he not marry you to be his helper?
Ei! You amaze me my daughter!
Did you ever see this monkey business in your fathers house?

Answer Me Kwamboka!
Did I not teach you the responsibilities that come with being someone's wife?
Don't you know it is a shame, a taboo for a man to see your monthly visitor?
Yet you let her sit anywhere anyhow in your house?

My daughter,
Stop wasting time gossiping in the marketplace,
It is a woman who breaks or makes a home,
Don't you dare raise your voice to your husband again,
A woman is to be seen not heard.
Now Please leave my homestead,
Rise up and make your house a home!
Po! I do not have money to pay back the hefty dowry paid for you!
My daughter it's time you realised you are someone's wife!

‪#‎Chroniclesofadeadpoet‬.

Lustful nights..

LAST NIGHT IN THESE SHEETS.

There was a moan

A battle that was already lost,

She fought for what she thought was hers,

Something he knew he had already conquered,

They could not see eye to eye,

But the body connection they couldn’t deny.

A cry, a groan,

So lustfully pure,

Not much words were said,

But a silly curse here and there,

Pain and pleasure alike,

Both in the very same measure.

You see, if sheets could talk,

These ones had quite a lot to say,

She called out his name in perfect poetic cadence,

And he did not disappoint,

He rose to the occasion,

First tender and gentle,

She gained the experience he gained a little more.

As she cried and choked with emotion,

He pursued her to the gates of earthly heaven,

It all started with a little kiss,

A caress that matured to a rough clutch,

And the rest well ask these sheets.

The beautiful panting graced with lustful moaning,

These sheets did bear a tear or two,

She really didn’t care and he neither was he afraid,

The beauty of nature fully expressed in her precise flawlessness

Where need meets grant, supply does demand.

Last night in these sheets,

The beauty of life came alive!

Together they made a passionate pair,

So beautiful, proficient that it turned the sheets scarlet,

Defying innocence to create fault

For a moment the world ceased

It didn’t really matter whether the love was real.

Last night in these sheets,

Came a moment that she would hold on for life,

But just another one of his daily routine.

Love and lust met in pure disgust.

Future lover...

LOVE AGAIN.

If I could love again,

I want it true, deep and beautiful,

I want a love so rare, yet so real,

Knowing that one person is the antidote to my venom,

Knowing that I will be loved solely for all I am,

My complete silliness, my perfect flaws, my weaknesses,

Yet beyond all that he sees my strength, my beauty

He sees me.

It’s not just the empty tons of air saying “I love you”

Neither is it the crazy spontaneous love making,

I just want to be loved,

A love so precious, something I can actually hold on to,

I do not need flowers every day,

Neither do I covet expensive gifts laced with lust,

I want love,

A love that is not ashamed to show off,

Neither too shy to showcase.

I want to be sure,

That with my broken heart there is hope,

With every sunrise I have a reason to wake up to,

And every night a dream to hold on to,

And every minute a person to look up to,

I need love in my life,

Because it is so beautiful when done right.

I want to smile because he is next to me,

Hug my pillow because he is away.

If I am to love again,

I want the pain of an argument, a misunderstanding,

I am ready for the bad days too,

I want that one person,

Who is perfect in his imperfections,

Complete in his own incompleteness

He who won’t only love me but himself too.

True, there is more to a rose than its thorns,

More to a rainbow than just color,

More to a cheetah than its spots,

More to a bull than just horns

And more to love than its flaws,

I do not want perfect,

If I am to love again I just want it real.

                                                                             

When the urge dies..

DEAD POET.

A poet never dies,

But what am I without my pen and paper?

What am I without the surging emotions of art?

The frustrations that come with a mediocre mind,

Days when I actually wonder,

Am I a poet?

When the heart is willing,

Yet the mind is rebellious,

Yes, I am poetically flawed,

The disappointment of rioting hormones,

I want to be a pastor, rapist, drug addict, a free bird

The redemption of pen and paper.

It’s like trying to enjoy the strumming of a stringless guitar,

And enjoying the tap of silent tunes,

Straining at the very verge of lost poetic sense,

I want to create wordless words,

After all whether dead or alive,

I am a poet.

It’s like having sight but not being able to see,

Or touching but not feeling,

Having the idea but not words,

Pain that doesn’t hurt,

Or rather joy that doesn’t exhilarate,

It frustrates the heart and drains the mind.

A nightmare so real, so intense

The real pains of being a dead poet.

Pen and paper do not fail me,

I seem to always have the right words

But when the mind becomes too mediocre,

Please pen and paper save me,

Relieve me of this shame,

I want to be alive again,

Bring back the glory of great masterpieces,

I need life and hope beyond this.

Please pen and paper,

Hear my plea,

For I am just but a dead poet

Hoping this time when I write,

You will give me life,

Pen and paper, all that I hold on to.

proud murderer...

NECROPHILE’S SENTIMENTS.

A thief comes at night,

While I strike whenever I feel right,

Time isn’t really my measure

I’m coming for your blood, I love it stale,

The pleasure that comes from your fear stricken face,

Yes I am your reality horror.

I love the beauty in your pain.

Why be alive when I can have you dead?

I am your worst nightmare,

While to me you are my dream come true,

My deadly satisfaction,

My heart beats rhythmically to the silence of yours.

I kill,

Not because I want to but because I have to,

You really are attractive when dead,

Don’t get me wrong,

I like you alive but I love you dead,

The bliss of your cold lifeless body,

That is real turn on to me,

The perfection of your motionless love making,

Not a sound, not a move you make,

That gives me all the pleasure I would ever wanted.

Why are you afraid of me?

At the mere mention of my name or rather condition as some scientists’ term it,

You all shiver in disgust,

I walk in the shadows for I fear the light,

Silently preying, the very merchant of death,

Yes, just the thought of your dead body turns me on,

The smell of your blood makes mine boil.

Please do not judge me for we both have this repulsive urges.

I am human, just a little beastly,

Everyone has a different taste right?

I prefer mine lacking of life,

I get so much satisfaction from corpses, bloody corpses.

I did not ask to be this way,

They all say do what makes you happy,

Well you are next on my list.

I will hunt you down.

They call me Earl, the crazy necrophile.