Tag Archives: writing

MOVE

In his song ‘ Exodus’, Bob Marley repeats the word MOVE six times; Move, Move, Move, Move, Move, Move
This I guess as matter of emphasis
That stagnation is a disease
Yes stagnation is the worst kind of disease because you never even know you’re sick
As a matter of fact destitution is the destination for those who tread the path of stagnation. To be stagnant is to court destruction. Move.
This poem is for those who spend their days turning and tossing in bed yet are quick to apportion blames for their lack of money to spend. MOVE
This poem is for women whose days are split in 3 segments; They spend the 1st segment of their days standing before the mirror; perfecting their looks and marveling at how beautiful they are because to them being beautiful is an occupation.
They spend the 2nd segment of their days on YouTube tuition perfecting their mastery of the arts of attraction, seduction and acquisition.
They spend the last segment of their day on Facebook and twitter seducing sponsors because they believe that success must be sexually transmitted. MOVE
This poem is also for parents who have placed the burden of their existence on the shoulders of their children whom they both know couldn’t have existed had their mothers remembered to take the pill. Carry your own weight and MOVE.
This poem is for those stuck in abusive relationships; women whose lives have been broken into thousand bits of sexual addiction pills that their men pop whenever their illicit desires take toll, those who nurse the delicate egos of their husbands at the expense of their self-worth but still take the punches from these beasts just because of the wedding vows. Gather every shred of your sanity and MOVE
You should know you don’t need a man to survive, ladies you don’t need a sponsor to thrive. All you need to succeed and break barriers are within you. The light within you is stronger than the darkness your situation has caged you in. Just take a step and move. Don’t wait for another Moses to help you cross the red sea, be your own Moses because manna falls from heaven no more.
Unleash the power of trinity
It’s all you need to defy gravity
And let your sweat wash away your aridity
For prosperity has the strongest affinity
With those who dare challenge their adversity
And I know you’ll tell me it’s easier said than done but son, it’s only when you have placed your feet on the pedal that you can race for the medal. And you will fall countless times but as long as the sun continues to shine, keep moving for its then that with Kings you’ll dine. MOVE

Work In Progress

I’m the one whose presence is annotated by perpetual absence of silence, call me siren
I’m you when your own heartbeat defies every step you take on the career ladder,
I’m the cancer that ate your mother’s breast when I knew she had twelve kids to be fed,
I’m the conniving spirits that duped your addicted father that rehab is for those trying to quit
I’m the hunger that drove you insane peddling your virtues for a plate of crumbs,
I’m the light skin black sheep of the family whose identity has been lost, everyday learning all that I am; all that makes my stomach churn with rage when I see in others.
I’m a hollow casket; my own corpse believes I stink
I am a lost shepherd sought after by sheep
I barely know me
I need revelation, from he who created me
The things I swore I couldn’t do have become a part of me
The things I hate doing
Things that fill me to the brim with self-loathe
Things hidden beneath my teeth and clothes

Sometimes I think my very existence is a mistake
My shoulders are burdened by heavy bundles of blame
For a past that I had no control over
Whoever sowed my seeds maliciously laced them with shame

I am sandwiched between two extremes;
Nobody understands me, neither do I
What am I worth?
I am the color of disappointment,
A definition of failure,
The barren branch of a vine that is chopped and burnt

The path to righteousness bruised my shoulders
Vanity didn’t find a place me
Love chose butterflies, fled from the dull me
Behind me trail 99 problems
No one in sight to help me solve them
And I am addicted to things am ashamed to pen…

What do I stand for?
For what purpose was I created?
Am I the only one asking these questions?

I am a faulty gun in the hands of a novice hunter cornered by a vicious prey
I am prey to alarm chimes reminding me every morning that I’m too small for my age yet too old for my dreams
I am the mess the society created but felt too good to clean,
I am the last crunch of a midnight snack that the throat moistens to swallow but the tongue still wants it back.
I am the insatiable bits of lust that blinded love. That craving for attention that sparked #mydressmychoice tension that lured your sister in her sweet sixteen to dress in micro-mini to call for catcalls without seeing sins in this, wallowing in the oblivion that ladies who command catcalls reduce themselves to specimens on which men practice their dominance.
I am a vestige of all the man I was meant to be, for when all is said and done the dilapidated apartments of my ribcage sinks at the weight of my failures, the stench of my wounded ego whisked my ambitions out of my system unto your doorstep as realities, so don’t brag to me about being on top of your world, man that’s my dream you’re living.
I am the last words of a slain poet, chocking on the metaphors as the last strike of destiny left my face spanked in wisps of crimson.
I’m the lost Angel knocking on Satan’s door, with premeditated good intentions soiled by your wicked expectations. The mustard seed of my existence strives to thrive, to give you million shades of love but you want to get me chained and spank me with lashes. Damn it! My creator fills my needs with million shades of grace so you can keep your filthy shades of Grey for yourself.
I’m the eye that finds you whenever you’re lost in thoughts, the gentleness in a beast that enticed the beauty, the flickers of nostalgia for times yet to come, the allure of a raspy voice that cajoled her to loosen up just 5 mins after meeting him.

I’m the history of mysteries that made you a best fit, a victim of your victories, the crooked stick that straightened your path to political stardom, the rag on the foot of your throne, the misfit that you dish thousands to have his head on plate, the ground is yet to drink the all blood of my lot you slaughtered to get where you’re. Success comes with a price tag but why are we the ones to pay for yours? Because we don’t have lives, because we’re shackled in poverty, because our lives don’t matter. listen, did you hear that. that’s the voice of my maker reminding you that this being you despise, this being you hate religiously, this being you’ve reduced to a metric to gauge your political bearing, this being you want dead because he couldn’t conform to your ideologies is still a work in progress.

Dark Room

In this dark room where loneliness resides
Walls are stained in crimson
The murals on the walls lash tongues
Whipping souls wandering in the darkness
These souls keep getting lost
Lurking in darkness
Foraging for bodies slain
A place they once called home
Whispers are heard in the dark room
A language of the cold ones
In this dark room there’s a floodlight
This floodlight is of despair
This floodlight is of apathy
This floodlight is of neglect
Children dumped herein
Motherless children with no identity
Their cries echo hitting the closed windows
The door knob is rusty but still holds tight
The souls of these encaved children roam freely
Attempting to free themselves
Free themselves from the walls society erected

The faceless ones

The faceless ones are bigmouthed
They talk too much
They believe it compensates for their faceless statue
The faceless ones visit when I’m out
Bringing all sorts of stories
Like a net cast in the sea
They net truths and lies alike

They are devious and cunning
They have razor-sharp memory
They know all the girls I have dated
Some that I have forgot
Some that only came once
Some that I chewed ones
And the more that I’m yet to chew

My wife is on top of news
She knows who I am
She knows the faceless ones are right
And I am as guilty as charged

The faceless ones have told her
That Nyambura and Kanini fought
Each swearing that they knew me full length
They told her that Anita’s bra got torn
When they fought with Adhis at the balcony
They told her how the police hand-cuffed me
And bundled me in Mariamu
Simply for keeping a school girl
Who was too deep for her age mates

The faceless ones didn’t stop there
They told her that I once stayed
Indoors for weeks
Nursing an oozing genitalia
After eloping with the village girl
That I sent packing after a week
They still believe she gave me Jakom

The faceless ones told my wife
That I’m worse than walking dead
They said that women are my office
Because I am adept at working in them
That is the only occupation
That I thrive in

So my wife heard them
Faceless ones gave her a voice
She asked me if we should be tested
I said she hasn’t give me reasons to doubt her status
She looked at the roof, fidgeted on her seat
And almost in a whisper she said
“I wish I could tell you the same”

And I left her there still mumbling
If only she knew what I’m afraid of!
No one will prick my fingers again!

Lord Have Mercy

Reading the bible, just wondering if such thing as righteousness is real in a world where everyone tries to give the bible a twist to find a better fit for themselves…the word of God that is a double-edged sword can be maliciously used to slit throats of those God thirsts to hear from..
God, stretch your hands to the hopeless sinners of my lot who have been cajoled to believe that your Grace will make up for their rebellious minds engaging in clandestine pleasures of this world, the shepherds have turned your word into a marketing tool to fill offering boxes as the path to heaven is steadily turning into savanna. ‪#‎LordhaveMercy‬

Ghetto Pain

Roads narrowed by food sellers
Houses peeling and leaking
Children walking bare feet
With windowed garments
Women breaking their backs
As their husbands are hammering
Anvils into meals

Sirens are heard
A house is on fire
Shouts are heard
A purse has been snatched
A mother wails
A son has been shot
A daughter has been raped

When night falls
You hold your heart in your hands
A bullet may spray it anytime
Police and thugs are a family
Just different uniforms

Stinking dumpsites
Burst sewers
Contaminated waters
Blinding illicit brews
Pregnant minors
Aborted babies blocking toilets
Fresh human dung on paths
Ghetto pain is becoming unbearable