Is to be told all the ways you don't matter
It is to be angry and afraid
It is to watch people walk on the opposite side of the street to avoid you
It is to be told to get over slavery
It is to be told that I'm not racist I have black friends
It is to be told the definition of racism like you don't already know
It is to be told hey what about reverse racism
It is to have a white terrorist group dedicated to your elimination
It is to be more worried about threats in your own country and those abroad
It is to wonder daily if your family will be safe, if they will get to come home
It is to called a **** for speaking out against the hate
It is to be called lazy when you work full time to provide for your family
It is to walk past folks and watch as the clench their purse or pockets
It is to be to have people fear you, when you feel more threatened then they ever could
It is to be told that privilege doesn't exist
It is to be told you are equal, except you know that in the courtroom, in the eyes of the law, the job market, the housing market, in the classroom, it is a ****** lie
It is to be live in a world where 1 in 3 black men are in prison
It is to know that they have sentences longer than white counterparts
It is to know they use prison labor to exploit them, slavery living on
It is to know that the police which are a relief for some, are a nightmare for you
It is to know that you can do everything right and be killed by someone sworn to protect you
It is to know that you will be blamed for your death inspite of this
It is to have the life choked out of you and a man telling you, **** your breathe
It is to hear what about black on black crime, even though every race commuts crime against their own kind the most
It is to remember white flight and the repercussions of it
It is to have family who have seen the bloodiness of the covil rights movement
It is to be taught in school how great this country is while ignoring the evil its done
It is to be taught in school how little you meant
It is to wake up every 2 weeks to another hashtag of some poor black fella to be forgot in a week
It is to want to simply be acknowledged that things arent right, and being ignored to this day
It is to be villianized in the media
It is to see that flag everyone holds dear and remember that pain it caused you
It is to fight and die for a country that still doesn't care about you
It is to be told to go back to Africa as if this wasnt stolen land
It is to be told I dont see you as black, you're just the same to me
It is to be told well you don't count as black, you don't act black
It is to have your culture stolen
It is to have value placed on your mysic and style and not your skin
It is to hear what would MLK think about these protest
It is to remember that people celebrated his assassination
It is to remember the slurs and the hate he recieved
It is to have people know they don't want to be treated the way you are
It is to want whats always been denied, the privilege of walking in your own skin without fear of persecution
It is to see family, friends and peers celebrate and share racist ideas and beleifs
It is being reassured they still value you
It is to know but not enough to matter

Being black in America is a lot of things, and I love the country all the same.

But I hope and pray for the day, that we can be treated the same.

ESSAYS ON
LEADERSHIP FRONTIERS OF AFRICAN LITERATURE
By
Alexander   k   Opicho




Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents                                                                                                                Page
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE 4
THE CURRENT EAST AFRICA IS NOT A LITERARY DESERT 27
AFRICAN WRITERS HAVE CULTURAL RIGHTS TO FORMULATE AND CREATE ENGLISH WORDS 31
LIKE PUSHKIN, AFRICAN WRITERS MUST CREATE THEIR OWN PROFFESSION OF LITERATURE 35
THERE IS POWER IN THE NAME ‘ALEXANDER’ 40
KENYAN COURTS AND PARLIAMENT ARE BETRAYERS OF HUMANE GOVERNANCE 47
AFRO-CHRISTIAN RESPONSE TO RADICAL LITERATURE IS GOOD AND SWAGGERISH 50
YUNUS’S SOCIAL BANKING IS A GOOD BENCHCMARK FOR THIRD WORLD ENTREPRENEURS 54
HEROISM IS NOT GREATNESS BUT HUMILITY IN SERVICE TO HUMANITY 57
KENYAN STUDENTS; YOUR MOBILE INTERNET CULTURE IS ANTI- ACADEMICS 61
WHAT IS THE MAGIC IN THE WORD ‘DRINKARD’ OF AMOS TUTUOLA 63
SOCIETIES IN AFRICA HAVE TO MENTOR BUT NOT CONDEMN THE LIKES OF JULIUS MALEMA 66
AMERICA WILL NOT WIN THE WAR ON GLOBAL TERRORISM 69
AFRICA CAN OVERCOME A MENACE OF **** IN EVERY 30 MINUTES 71
COMPARATIVE ROLES OF AFRICAN-BRAZILIAN LITERATURE IN THE POLITICS OF RACIAL AND GENDER DEMOCRACY 76
NEO-COLONIALISM IS NOT THE MAIN VICE TO THE GAMBIAN POLITICS 85
RELATIVE MEDIA OBJECTIVITY IS ACHIEVEABLE IN AFRICA AGAINST POWER CULTURE AND TYRANNIES OF TASTE 89
READING CULTURE IS GOOD FOR BOTH THE POOR AND THE RICH 96
VIOLENT DEATH IS THE BANE OF AFRICAN WRITERS AND ARTISTS 100
AFRICAN WRITTERS AND ARTISTS MUST ASPIRE BEYOND A NOBEL PRIZE 104
WHAT ARE CULTURAL RIGHTS OF AFRICAN ENGLISH SPEAKERS? 109
WHY IMPRISONMENT OF WRITERS CONTRIBUTED MOST TO AFRICAN LITERATURE 113
DORIS LESSING: A FEMINIST, POET, NOVELIST, WHITE-AFRICANIST AND NOBELITE UN-TIMELY PASSES ON 121
Amilcar Cabral: Beacon of revolutionary literature and social democracy 127
How the State of Israel is brutally dealing with African refugees 131
Historical glimpses of language dilemma in Afro-Arabic literature 146
THIS YEAR 2013; IS THE YEAR OF GREAT DEATHS 153
AFRICAN LITERATURE WITHOUT POETRY IS LIKE LOVE WITHOUT VAGINAL *** 156



















PROLOGOMENA
BARRACK OBAMA READS MOBY ****
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
American president is reading Moby ****
Ja-kogello is reading Moby ****
Ja-siaya is reading Moby ****
Ja-merica is reading Moby ****
Jadello is reading Moby ****
Ja-buonji is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his father
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his mother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death to his brother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took the grannies
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman  
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Baba Michelle is reading Moby ****
Baba Sasha is reading Moby ****
Baba Malia is reading Moby ****
Baba nya-dhin is reading Moby ****
Sarah’s sire is reading Moby ****
Ja-sharia is reading Moby ****
The ****** is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes audacity of hope
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes dreams of fathers
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes yes we can
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes American dream
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you readings?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because American president is like whale hunting
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Obama is a money making animal
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Osama is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Gaddaffi is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because coming to Kenya is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Guantanamo prison is a bay of whales
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Snowden is a Russian whale
Because launching drones is whale riding
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading, Moby ****?














CHAPTER ONE
TABAN MAKITIYONG RENEKET LO LIYONG AND PREFECTURE OF AFRICAN LITERATURE

I am writing this article from Kenya on this day of 23 September 2013 when the Al shabab, an Arabo-Islamic arm of the global terrorist group the Al gaeda have lynched siege on the shopping mall in Nairobi known as the West Gate where an average of forty people have been killed and a hundreds are held hostage. The media is full of horrendous and terrifying images. They have made me to hate this day. I hate terrorism, I hate American foreign policy on Arabs, I hate philosophy behind formation of the state of Israel and I equally hate religious fundamentalism. Also on this date, all the media and public talks in Kenya are full of intellectual and literary tearing of one Kenyan by another plus a retort in the equal measure as a result of the ripples in the African literature pool whose epicenter is the Professor Taban Lo Liyong .He is an epicenter because he had initially decried literary mediocrity among the African scholars and University professors, Wherein under the same juncture he also quipped that Kenya’s doyen of literature Ngugi wa Thiong’o never deserved a Nobel prize. Liyong’s stand has provoked intellectual reasons and offalities to fly like fireworks in the East African literary atmosphere among which the most glittering is Chris Wanjala’s contrasting position that; who made Liyong the prefect and ombudsman of African literature? This calls for answers. Both good answers and controversial responses. Digging deeper into the flesh of literature as often displayed by Lo Liyong.
Liyong is not a fresher in the realm of literary witticism. He is a seasoned hand .Especially when contributions of Liyong to east African literary journal during his student days in the fifties of the last century during which he declared east Africa a literary desert. In addition to his fantastic titles; Another ****** Dead and The Un-even Rips of Frantz Fanon, Professor Taban Lo Liyong also humorously called Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus, what a farcical literary joke? I also want to appreciate this Liyong’s artfulness of language in this capacity and identify him in a literary sense as Taban Matiyong Lo   Liyong the son of Eshu. He is an ideological and literature descended of the great West African Eshu. Eshu the god of trouble which was dramatized by Obutunde Ijimere in the imprisonment of Obadala and also recounted by Achebe in the classical essays; Morning Yet of Creation Day. I call him Eshu because of his intellectual and literary ability to trigger the East and West Africans into active altercation of literary, cultural and political exchanges every other time he visits these regions. Whether in Lagos, Accra or Nairobi.
Now, in relation to Ngugi and intellectual quality of Kenyan University literature professors was Liyong right or wrong?  Does Liyong’s stand-point on Ngugi’s incompetence for Nobel recognition and mediocrity in literary scholarship among Kenyan Universities hold water. Are Liyong’s accusations of East Africa in these perspectives factually watertight and devoid of a fallacy of self-aggrandizement to African literary prefecture as Professor Chris Wanjala laments. Active literary involvement by anyone would obviously uncover that ;It is not Liyong Alone who has this intellectual bent towards East Africa, any literary common sense can easily ask a question that; Does Ngugi’s literary work really deserve or merit for Nobel recognition or not ? The answers are both yes and no. There are very many of those in Kenya who will readily cow from the debate to say yes. Like especially the community of alumni of the University of Nairobi who were Ngugi’s students in the department of English in which Ngugi was a Faculty during the mid of the last century. Also the general Kenyan masses who have been conditioned by warped political culture which always and obviously confine the Kenyan poor into a cocoonery of chauvinistic thought that Ngugi should or must win because he is one of us or Obama must win because he is one of us or Kemboi must win because he is the son of the Kenyan soil. These must also be the emotional tid-bits upon which the Kenyan Media has been based to be catapulted into Publicity feat that Ngugi will win the Nobel Prize without reporting to the same Kenyan populace the actual truths about other likely winners in the quarters from the overseas. I am in that Kenyan school thought comprising of those who genuinely argue that Ngugi’s literary work does not befit, nor merit, nor deserve recognition of Nobel Prize for literature. This position is eked on global status of the Nobel Prize in relation to Ngugi’s Kikuyu literary and writing philosophy. It is a universal truth that any and all prizes are awarded on the basis of Particular efforts displayed with peculiarity. Nobel Prize for literature is similarly awarded in recognition of unique literary effort displayed by the winner. It is not an exception when it comes to the question of formidability in a particular effort. However, the most basic literary virtue to be displayed as an overture of the writer is conversion of theory into practice. This was called by Karl Marx, Hegel, Antonio Gramsci and Paulo Freire, especially in Freire’s  pedagogy of the oppressed as praxis.History of literature and politics in their respective homogenous and comparative capacities has it that ;There has been eminent level of praxis by previous Nobelites.Right away from Rabitranathe Tagore to Wole Soyinka, From Dorriss Lessing to Wangari Mathai.Similar to JM Coatze ,Gao Tziaping,Alexander Vasleyvitch Solzhenystisn and Baraka Obama.This ideological stand of praxis is the one that made Alfred Nobel himself to to stick to his gun of intellectual  values and deny Leo Tolstoy the prize in 1907 because there was no clear connection between rudimentary Tolstoy in the nihilism and Feasible Tolstoy in the possible manner  of the times .In a similar stretch Ngugi wa Thiongo’s literary works and his ideological choices are full of ideological theory but devoid of ideological praxis. Evidence for justification in relation to this position is found back in the 70’s and 80’s of the last century, When Ngugi was an active communist theoretician of Kenya. His stature as a Kenyan communist ideologue could only get a parallel in the likes of Leon Trotsky and Gramsci. This ideological stature was displayed in Ngugi’s adoration of the North Korean communism under the auspice of the Korean leader Kim Yun Sung. This is so bare when you read Ngugi’s writers in politics, a communist pamphlet he published with the African red family. By that time this pamphlet was treated equally as Mao tse Tung’s collected works by the Kenya government which means that they were both illegal publications and if in any case you were found with them you would obviously serve nine months in prison. And of course when the late Brigadier Augustine Odongo was found with them he was jailed for nine months at Kodhiak maximum prison in Kisumu ,Kenya .O.K, the story of Odongo is preserved for another day. But remember that, this was Ngugi only at his rudimentary stage. But when Ngugi got an opportunity to get an ideological asylum, he did not go to Russia, nor East Germany, Nor Tanzania, nor China but instead he went to the USA , a country whose ideological civilization is in sharp contradiction with communism; a religion which Ngugi proffessess.In relation to this choices of Ngugi one can easily share with me these reflections; is one intellectually  honest if he argues that he is a socialist revolutionary when his or her employer is an American institution like the university of California in Irvine ?
Ngugi was not the only endangered communist ideologue of the time. There were also several others. Both in Kenya and without Kenya. They were the likes of; Raila Odinga, George Moset Anyona, ***** Mutunga and very many others from Kenya. But in Africa some to be mentioned were Walter Rodney, Yoweri Museven,Isa Shivji,Jacob Tzuma ,Robert Mugabe and others. The difference between Ngugi and all of these socialist contemporaries of him is that; Ngugi went to America and began accumulating private property just like any other capitalist. But these others remained in Africa both in freedom and detention to ensure that powers of political darkness which had bedeviled Africa during the last century must go. And indeed the powers somehow went. Raila has  been in Kenya most of the times,Anyona died in Kenya while in the struggle for second liberation of Kenyan people from the devilish fangs of Moi’s dark reign of terror and tyrany.Walter Rodney worked in Tanzania at Dare salaam University where he wrote his land mark book; How Europe underdeveloped Africa. Later on he went back to his country of birth in Africa, Guyana where he was assassinated while in the revolutionary struggle for political good of the Guyanese people. Yoweri Museven practically implemented socialism by fighting politics of sham and nonsense out of Uganda of which as per today Uganda is somehow admirable. Isa Shivji has ever remained in Dare salaam University, inspite of poverty. He is now the chair of Mwalimu Julius Nyerere school of Pan African studies. Jacob Tsuma and Robert Mugabe they are current presidents of South Africa and Zimbabwe respectively. The gist of this reference to African socialist revolutionaries as contemporaries to Ngugi wa Thiong’o is that a socialist revolutionary must and should not run away from the oppressor in to a zone of comfort. But instead must remain and relentlessly fight, just like in the words of Fidel Castro; fight and die in the battle field as long as it is a struggle against the enemy of the revolution. This view by Castro is pertinent as it’s a Revolutionary praxis which actually is redolent of practice of an ideology that has to be held for ever above ideological cosmentics.Ngugi scores badly on this. So if the Nobel academy looks at Ngugi in terms of defending human rights then it must be reminded that Ngugi have no marks on the same because he only ran away from the practical struggle. Anyway, Politics and ideology has its own fate. But let us now come back to literature. Ngugi and his books. As at  this time of writing this essay  Ngugi has published the following works; Weep not Child, The River Between, A Grain of Wheat, Black Hermit, Petals of Blood, Devils on the Cross,Matigari,Homecoming,Decolonizing the Mind, Writers in Politics, Ngugi Detained, Pen Points and Gun Points, Wizard of the Crow,Globalectics,Remeembering Africa, Dreams in Times of War and I Will Marry When I Want as well as the Trial of Dedan Kimathi which he wrote along with Micere Githae Mugo.Out of this list the only works with literary depth that call for intellectualized attention are ;A Grain of wheat, Wizard of the crow and Globalectics. The Grain of wheat is simply a post colonial reflection of Kenyan politics. Its themes, plot, lessons and entire synechedoche is also found in Wole Soyinka’s Season of Anomie as well as Achebe’s Anthills of the savannah. My argument dove-tails with those of Liyong’s stand that rewarding Ngugi’s Grain of wheat and forgetting Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah and A man of the people would be a literary ceremony devoid of literary justice. Wizard of the Crow is indeed a magnum opus. I am ready to call it Ngugi’s oeuv

Once upon a time
and once only
there lived an unsightly man

and though he was very kind and hard-working
no woman got
more than one step closer to him

after a while
seeing he cannot find his soulmate
the man left the village and built himself a cabin
in the woods

all day long
he chopped wood
picked fruit and herbs
occupied himself with carpentry and animal husbandry
and grafted all sorts of trees in spring

from time to time
the villagers came to see him
asking for advice on how to heal their wounds
ordering a door
or a bed
and less often
a coffin

but the man in the woods
though more and more sought-after
was
more and more miserable
as time went by

one day
unable to possess his soul anymore
wove a rope
and went to the oldest oak
to hang himself
but the oak
who had seen so much in its life
but never a man so wretched
broke the branch he was hanging on
then covered him with leaves
so that no one could find him
right next to its trunk

but
underneath the leaves
our man fell asleep at once
and woke up before God
and he said to Him
Lord
You know that ever since I was a child
I have been careful not to tread on ants
or any kind of crawlers
I have not stolen
I have not lied
I have worked all my life
for all that I earned
inspite of these
I am really miserable
that no woman wants me

and the Lord said
I know you very well
there is hardly anyone as kind as you out there
but as much as I love you
I cannot create a woman so unbeautiful
to love you
but
you can

look
from the dried oak branches
you can shape a woman's body
fill it with clay and wrap it in leaves
and I will take care of the rest

so, after he woke up
our hero
worked on his clay creature for three whole days
but fearing she would reject him
he made her even more unattractive than he was

on the third day
he called God
and asked Him to give her life
and the Lord
as promised
blew the breath of life into the woman

seeing this wonder
the man was grateful to the Lord
then woke her up gently
with a kiss on the forehead
she then opened her eyes and asked him:
who are you
and why are you
so hideous that you are scaring me

to which he cried and said
forgive me
I am your servant
The Lord made me like this
to protect you from wild beasts
but I am hard-working and wise
to care for you how I know best

but she closed her eyes
and then he understood
to only care for her
in secret

and as he loved her more and more
her ugliness began to fade
becoming more beautiful with every passing day

soon
a young villager came to ask for remedies for his mother
and not little was his surprise
when he saw the most beautiful woman
he had ever seen
and she saw him, too
and understood what love is
oh, how she whined that night

seeing all this
the man who dreamt too much
told her the following day
look
I know it is time to go our separate ways
I cared for you as well as I could
and I hope you are not dissatisfied with anything
go with that handsome young man
and should you need anything
look for me
if you can bear to look me in the eye
and so she did

years later
while keeping himself busy with a bee garden
the man in the woods felt her presence behind him
but, afraid not to scare her,
he did not turn around
and she cried out:
I eventually learned the whole story
so I came to ask for your forgiveness
and look into your eyes
and the man
who had stopped dreaming for a long time
turned around and was astonished
to see before him
the most unsightly woman in the world
but he did not mind
so, he cared for her
just like that first day
and she regained her beauty and happiness
and perhaps
the man in the woods would have never learnt
why his woman caressed him with so much joy
if one day he did not look in the water of a spring
and see
the most handsome man
there has ever been
out there

Everytime we close our eyes,
Trying to remember our mother's lullabies
Warm tears, sparkling like diamonds
Running down our cheeks, hiding behind eyelids

When we look in the mirror and all we see is hate
There is no one to break our fall except fate

We judge our eyes, ear, and...oh did I mention that nose is fake
You people are fickle, you criticize until we break

They say "God" created us all equal and that beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
But how can you say that, you hypocrite, let that smolder

Because while you sit on a throne of discrimination
We scramble and hide to find our place in this nation

He can't even go home to his family because of his ****** domain
He loves his partner but his fathers inane

She breaks her back at work everyday, does more than any man will ever do in a decade
But still riding on her gender, her paycheck begins to fade

And when you see us crawling, fighting with need
You kick us down for the feeling of greed

He tries to get a job and because of the complexion of his pigment,
They don't hire him, nada, that's the end of this segment

She walks down the street covered from head to toe, with only her eyes to show
It's her beliefs but that doesn't make the ***** looks a lesser blow

We fee; the hurt and the pain everyday.
While you sit on your ***** in Tampa Bay

And when we can't be accepted in society,
We don't know any other way for prosperity

So we find a way to numb the pain
The drugs, the razor biting the skin, the *** with mysterious men
Anything with a gain

Please don't hurt us, please don't shut the door in our faces
Because we always seem to wake up in stranger places

Believe us, because this world should not be dog eat dog, it should be full of empathy
Way past the point of poetic sympathy

Break our bones, our courage, our love but inspite of it all
We fight on so that we're with the ones we love on the day that we fall

Drag us out and hang us like a beacon
Because we are not the ones who should be beaten

We are the kings of the world, no prejudice only love
Because love is love even when push comes to shove

Please enlighten us on how being different is bad
And we promise you, despite the real truth, we won't be mad

He's in love with his boyfriend. He asked him just last week to marry him
Never to break his vows until they bury him

She's a single mom of three kids, always making sure they have a good life
But in spite of it her bosses always cut her down with a knife

And he needs to pay for his wife's kemo
Every night he's struggling to ask from people at his mother's Bingo.

And when she walks down the street, she takes pride in what she believes
Always wondering why the man in the window is angry at what he sees

This is us in every way.
We know you wish this was just friendly foreplay

But we will bury you, smolder you with the ashes of our last exhumation
Without you this world would have a better function

Ok, maybe we're astray from the norm
But who says we won't be the end of this petty storm

Dose us with gasoline, light us a flame,
Watch us burn at the stake like it's a game.

But we'll shine so brightly you won't want to fuss
Because, in the end, you'll finally see US.

AWAY WITH INJUSTICE, AND BRING SOMETHING NEW ON OUR SIDE.  YOU CAN BEHOLD IT ALL AROUND, IT CAN BE SEEN FAR AND WIDE.
LET US CONTINUE TO FIGHT FOR JUSTICE, AND REFUSE TO LET IT STOP.  DON'T THINK ABOUT GIVING UP; WE HAVE TO REACH THE TOP.
AWAY WITH INJUSTICE, DON'T ALLOW YOURSELF TO LOOK BACK.  WE MUST STRIVE TO MOVE AHEAD, INSPITE OF SUFFERING LACK.
LET US BE THE GOOD EXAMPLE, DOING WHATEVER IS RIGHT.  LET JUSTICE DISPELL ALL DARKNESS, MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT.
BY, AUTHOR & POET, SANDRA JUANITA NAILING

by
Alexander  K  Opicho
Eldoret,Kenya
(aopicho@yahoo.com)

Ladbrokes, the online betting firm has once again nominated Ngugi wa Thiong'o as a candidate for Nobel prize in literature 2014.The firm arrives at the probable nominee through a highly polished probabilist mechanism.It also nominated Ngugi as the probable candidate for literature Nobel prize, but the final was Alice Munro the Canadian short story writress.The eventuality of Ngugi winning the literature Nobel prize is a long a waited event in Africa , especially among Kenyans.
However, Ngugi is not the only nominee , he is among others and even to make it worse he is not the top scoring nominee. He has tied with four  others at the score of 50/1 points.These  are; Umberto Eco who wrote the famous book In the Name of the Rose, Nuruddin Farah a Kenya *** Somalian veteran poet and prose writer   and   then Darcia Maraini.
There are eleven writers of global stature who are currently scoring above Ngugi wa Thiong'o.They are operating at the level of 50/1 scores. These include ;Margaret Atwoo d, Salman Rushdie, Cees Nooteboom, Don DeLillo, Amos Oz, Javier Marias, Cormac McCarthy , Bob Dylan, Peter Handke, William Trevor and Les Murray . The missing writer in this category of global writers is Yan Martel the author of Life of Mr. Pi , whose also on the list of the favourite writers of president Barrack Obama.His book Life of Mr. Pi once shared  a prize and equivalent acclaim with Salman Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Legs. So, why Martel was not nominated remains the usual intrigues of Nobel nomination process.
Haruki Murakami ,Assia Djebar,Svetlana Aleksijevitj , Peter Nadas, Joyce Carol Oates , Adonis ,Milan Kundera , Philip Roth , Mircea Cartarescu, Ko Un , Jon Fosse  and Thomas Pynchon  are currently scoring below Ngugi.They are operating between 10/1 and 26/1 scores.However among them Haruki Murakami, Joyce Carol Oates and Phillip Roth were very story contenders and hence competeters for the same prize with Ngugi during last year.But Joyce Carol Oates is a weaker contender this year given than he recently wrote an offensive and tortuous poem against the eminent American  poet Robert Frost .  Oates drew from the book Lovely, Dark and  Deep  which   paints the  Frost  as an arrogant, sexist pig who gave up on his mentally ill children. The story has outraged Frost’s fans, biographers, and  his survivors.
Inspite of all these there is no literary value that can make Ngugi wa Thiong'o to deserve a Nobel prize reward for  Literature. Apart from his first  two books weep not child and the river between that had concrete literary position, his later works are pamphlets of communism , that keep of regurgitating communism as initially written by Karl Marx and France Fanon.His second last book Globalectics is written as annual lectures in respect of Rene Wellek, the books is a practical duplication of Paulo Freire , and Spivak Gavatri.His contemporaries at the University of Nairobi accusing him of tribalism when it came to supervising post graduate students. he was soft on his fellow Kiguyu's and discriminative agains Luo and Luhyia students.He lifestyle as communist ideologue is also self defeating as teaches in america at Irvine University , very busy amassing wealths just like any other capitalist.He campaign for vernacular writing is egually not water tight on the bench of praxis, as he himself teaches special English in America but not kiguyu language.
Another stunning revelation from the Swedish academy is nomiantion of Vladimir Putin the Russian president for Nobel peace prize alongside fifty something  organizations as competitors.the nominations is based on his role he played in the Nuclear disarmament of Syria.The Ukraine question has not been yet raised.But logic of these goes like historical imbroglio that puzzled the world in relation to the role of ****** in relation communism against the then gathering storm for the second world war.

Broken down more than I care to confess.
old roads and sweethearts of the moment the taste of bitter ends goes good with a bourbon and coke .
Blowing smoke rings across the room of some run down dive it's all part of just being me.

Tomorrow I will find good use for dark glasses and a  one time call.
I'll see you in a week sugar I'm doing fine and other well intended lies just part of the drive .

Some good laughs and better drugs does it ever grow old boys?
I cant say it does but I dam sure have to late to turn back now.
A blues chord and some broken strings was it ever a choice for the gentle were never intended to understand one as perfectly wicked as me.

I been running taking shelter with whomever I can find .
Photographs of my thoughts like perfume that lingers only within my mind .

It's another journey ahead and some laughs between the vices yearn maybe it's just the urge to know we still feel a ******* thing at all are simply fuel to still make that page bleed .

Maybe you can share I have to many secrets so I guess I will just listen
with a drink in hand .
Moments last lifetimes cherish that place in which you can confide.
As the arts in the phases scattered cross dark corners and a shared embrace.

I have fallen from the mountain only to find myself on the other side again.

Watched friends fade and I still hold them true I drink with you even in your absence ****** the good will always keep my blind to the ****** up **** I no longer recall .

We run until the sunsets fade to repeat again .
Dust to bones forever the fool and always a fast friend.

I have survived it still I care to ignore the sign .
For that highway echo's something a promise can never truly deliver .

I'd stay here longer but  the devils always only seconds away.
Maybe one day I will stop or maybe just hang around long enough to stick him with the tab.

Cheers Gonz

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loviliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondance, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, inspite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.

When the soothing lights of your eyes
Exchange glances with the sun
On the colossal blue,
Colours start swimming around me
Like dazzling butterflies.
And my silly heart
Bewitched by your majestic charm,
Still revolves around you like a mere satellite,
Inspite of visualizing that
You have more moons than Jupiter!

Pacing the floor in the middle of this
watching the kettle 'til steam starts to hiss
A strange fascination we have with the bliss
with nothing behind us but one heated kiss.

Underneath an umbrella I stand in the rain
and wait on the platform for the six o'clock train
well you never quite hold me and I rarely complain
and soaked with frustration I walk home again.

We bid for each other in some Chinese auction
and you got the ***** one mixed up concoction
we checked out our prizes at a much closer range
What were we thinking and can we exchange?

And without any memories to dry up the tears
we long for the fire and the comfort of years
but it's just one more lesson, a good one we learned.
the slow-cooker is better and we're less often burned.

And then as I ponder you come in the door
I smile at your tired eyes and looking for more
I stir up the *** as you take off your Totes
and you ask me to make you some Five-Minute Oats.

"I made 'em already to warm up your cockles
the seat of your heart and without the debacles
I sensed that the cold rain would stir the desire
so I whipped up a batch and rekindled the fire".

And inspite of my rambling it seems rather clear
that Five-Minute Oats can mean something more dear
it's that person who waits in your kitchen above
stirring Five Minute oats into passionate love.

-Gina Morrone

*******, words constricting
Woke up, wrong place to live in
Now I find myself hustling
But I can't keep from tossing in
My bed at night
Don't want to breathe and I've got to fight
With all my might crack the walls
And shed some light
On the wrong side of the long night persisting
Inspite of our Hollywood vinyls
And pop star idols
'cause at midnight they bite us
And drink our love.

Imagine work paid off  
And you're never laid off, rough appearance
Won't make them scoff
What if tough heights didn't last long
Or burn so strong, didn't scar your tongue,
And good fun wasn't modest
Like Bollywood's hottest
We'd live the lives loudest
That we could be proudest of.

We forget it all, they've set it small
Well we're all not tall, we just bend down
Let them move your limbs in any given position
Because life's only
A luxurious possession after all.

Pacing the floor in the middle of this
watching the kettle 'til steam starts to hiss
A strange fascination we have with the bliss
with nothing behind us but one heated kiss.

Underneath an umbrella I stand in the rain
and wait on the platform for the six o'clock train
well you never quite hold me and I rarely complain
and soaked with frustration I walk home again.

We bid for each other in some Chinese auction
and you got the ***** one mixed up concoction
we checked out our prizes at a much closer range
What were we thinking and can we exchange?

And without any memories to dry up the tears
we long for the fire and the comfort of years
but it's just one more lesson, a good one we learned.
the slow-cooker is better and we're less often burned.

And then as I ponder you come in the door
I smile at your tired eyes and looking for more
I stir up the *** as you take off your Totes
and you ask me to make you some Five-Minute Oats.

"I made 'em already to warm up your cockles
the seat of your heart and without the debacles
I sensed that the cold rain would stir the desire
so I whipped up a batch and rekindled the fire".

And inspite of my rambling it seems rather clear
that Five-Minute Oats can mean something more dear
it's that person who waits in your kitchen above
stirring Five Minute oats into passionate love.

And you remind me of every person I know and love.

If you can live long enough,
Life will teach you how to live,
And in the moment we'll grow.

And all I can give
Is nothing more than the truth
As we reap what we sow.

I guess it's true what they say,
You live and learn,

Misguided youth now we wait and burn,

I guess it's true that it's easier to fake than it is to actually do.

The devil disguised in the roots,
I watched him grow inside of you.
Inspite of you, I was inspired by you,

But
I was just passing through,
Transparent apparently on a path led with tangled leaves,
Tread into the ground.

I guess it's true that were bounded by love.
As the seasons changed so did the reasons to fall.

And I fell for you implicitly,
like rain drops from clouds.

Who am i?
Does it matter? Who are you? Do you care to know? Maybe we are one and the same...sharing the same pain because of where we come from. Dancing to the same drum. Looking to have fun trying to avoid that same bullet from the enemies gun...we're both growing and learning...mistakes made, lessons learned. The fire within us both continues to burn...soon we learn while laughing at the same joke, we've both fallen hard, in love inhaling all the smoke from that heavenly herb...we found true love in a place that gives us none. You have helped me see who i am by showing me who u are. Our spirits shine inspite of the dimming souls around us...the ghetto can be a horrible place, but we carry on the path we found this special thing...now we can sing the song of ****** thru the complexity of negativity we are surrounded by...u and i become one, making love so passionately, *******, but oh so tender...EVERYTIME is greater than the last...im your lady, u my man...we fall n dream in eachothers arms. Wake up the next sunrise to do it all again...

Moon dust in our lungs,
Stars in our eyes,
We are the child of the cosmos !
A ruler of the skies !!! :)

If we are made of stardust
And our skin matches land,
We're allowed to have volcanoes
That bursts red from some glands,

Every girl has it once in 28 days
Which bring showery red falls and stomach aches
But we should be proud it , cause it's the only blood that bleeds without violence
Then why should we be ashamed of it, or be silenced

So, let's be bold, let's be proud .
Let us realize , that we are the clouds,
That may shower inspite of being clean,
Don't ever forget the power of the Queen

Wether in chess or in life,
We are the one that posses the sharpest knives,
We have our dreams inside our eyes
We also have a place where the warrior hides,

Because girls, our born in the storm,
With thunder in their hearts,
Chaos in their organs and
Lightining in their souls..

Wether steady or slow,
They are rooted but they flow
Wether angels or ******* ,
They have a universe full of secrets ,
Wether in air or underground,
Each Queen has her own crown

To look, to touch, to hold,
To squeeze, to smell, to kiss,
To  unhappily release.
These truths still untold
Block the blow of our bliss!
To love from the shiver of the skin,
From the blood and the flesh and the bone
To the flame for a soul within...
To love and to feel alone.
To try to touch the incandescence,
To reach the limpness of a cloud,
To hurt both company and ausence,
To jump, to fly, to fall.
To cry and to pray and to kiss again
In a poisoning paradox of desire,
To feel as cold as ice and hot like melting fire.
In spite of the time,
In spite of morality,
In inspite of our parents,
Of our own anxiety,
In inspite of the world
And whatever watches from above,
In spite of ourselves,
To love.
To love and to pray and to hurt again
To jump, to fly, to fall,
To feel Hell and Heaven at the reach of a hand
But to know nothing at all.

I know you imagine me to be strong
Build me up in this image
Of a person with attitude, guts
Too much anger, too headstrong
Too much of a stereotype,
Too much of a misfit

But I don't ask that you think differently
You see I am sort of used to people walking away
And I had rather you see me as infallible
Than as something to be pitied, as someone vulnerable
To their cheap attacks, to your barbed remarks
I wish that you would- could - understand
That I am something terribly moody
But I can be good. Yes, I am good

I can be better if you'd listen to me
Let me in but don't demand too much from me
I will try to leave everything undisturbed
Heal a scar or two then walk out from your heart
Without having occupied any position of interest
Or importance

I wouldn't mind. I have been relegated to the background
once again
But I am infallible

My scars aren't meant to be pitied
Or sympathized with
I hate that you think you can understand
When you don't
I don't care about what you've been through
Until you've been with me for years
You've seen all that I have to offer
Because believe me
I'd never trust anyone with everything
If they haven't even been around that long

Some might think this is all there is to it
But I can tell you that there are a million things
Left to learn about me
So wait. Calm yourself. Let us be but don't just let me be
Don't rush for me, don't slow down for me
Just let me walk at my own pace but if you see me falter,
Then check if I'm fine. Make it known that you care
Believe me it helps when I'm with a blade.
You don't know how the simple gestures affect me

How they shake the ground beneath my feet
How they make me smile
How my world changes

So please. Just care for me. But don't ask- demand- too much of Me
Don't put me up on some pedestal, don't think of me as fragile
My scars, the ones I will slowly begin to show to you,
Aren't indicators of that.
I am proud of them- intensely proud
I've fought and I've died a million times on the inside
I've cried and I hated myself the most through these years

(I used to tell myself those barbed remarks
Every single criticism, I would sit up and repeat it to myself
So that I never got ahead of myself
Everything they said, how much they didn't like me,
Didn't care for me.
I sat up and repeated all of that to myself
Every. God. ****. Night.
Hoping someone would call just so I'd have an excuse to quit
But no one ever did -was ever up, ever available- at such times
So I'd just continue)

Despite everything, inspite of everything
I stopped. I had the strength- with or without
Anyone- anyone- being there
Respect- love- me a little bit for it
Hate that I do this to myself
Tearing into myself,
Tearing myself down into such tiny pieces
Making myself into this small entity
Hate it. Detest it. Loathe it.

Tell me that.

But never stop telling me
Don't do that blindly though
Please listen to me as well
Don't blind yourself to how
I am marginally better everyday
Even if there are so manymany setbacks
Be honest with me
I wouldn't care if you talked badly of me then
Because I'd know that you truly loved me then
(yes. yes, i would)

So please. Just give yourself
Just give me  
A chance to be who I am around you
Don't expect it to happen too fast
I swear I'll be there by your side
If you called for me
I'd always look out for you
I would stick up for you
When your lover wouldn't do that either
Don't be afraid of how different
And moody I am
I'll always be there for you
Just call me
And give us time-time-time

A Love so pure
runs through my veins.
stayed inside
my vicious brain,

A girl who's mine,
and stayed true,
inspite of everything
inspite of the blue.

A love so pure,
pounds my heart strong,
I know this time,
I cannot be wrong

A girl who's kind
her heart is gold.
beauty in her eyes
cannot be sold

A Love so pure,
that melts my heart,
realized the worth
of this yong divine

A girl who's part,
Can never be replaced,
A love at its purest,
will  make our days

It can make one
Rich without gold.
Youthful inspite of
Being old.
Inspired despite
Having tired.
Ablazed without
Having been dazed.
It is a beautiful language,
Both expressive and intense.
It's warmth assuages,
Relieving palpable stress.
Spare no expense
When making known
Your desires,
For there will always be
A poem there to
Light your fire.

Cloud formed above with a cold shade
Walked with his heads down, humble
He put smile on every face, never fade
People adored his honesty, they mumble

Whether you disagree the fact, he told it
Said it for the grace of the people, he loved
Got the message and he put his life for it
They spat spite inspite his honesty, hated

The believers, the supporters, they failed
Couldn't help the prophet but to obey him
Never atttack back, just defend, then exiled
They sieged lands, helpless, went with him

Years later, commandments descended
Won their land back, no more bloodshed
Freed the slaves, freedom for all, but laws
Women be brave, you're safe, no more bows

Except for your God

There was this garden where I looked for breaths every morning.These cool and pine slapped winds gave me reason to live as I fought hard to ward frustrations of life.So many of them clouded me that they could have outnumbered the grass blades that stood proudly in the trimmed lawn. There was this lone Oak that stood tall and alone just like me in this mountain ***** retreat.A peculiarity of this land was that it was not amenable to growth of any flowers. I had none of them whatsoever in any 12 months year after year. The flower rows had turned **** pots for two terriers and three cats that romped the greens almost whole day.Despite their efforts at fertilizing nothing happened.It was accidental that I discovered a puny rose bush,almost stunted, at the end of one row when I was asking my housekeeper to clear the row of dirt. My delight knew no bounds as I saw the little survivor. It may have been little but it was old and had strong sharp thorns and drew blood from me as I tried caressing it. Its first regular watering was that very drop of blood.Determined to let it live and grow I became a care giver instantly.



Fertilizers,gardening manuals later I drew up a watering plan that kept me busy day after day.To my delightful amazement the plant took to shoots and little greens. Soon it had its first bud then another and then another.The first flower that beamed at me one morning was a green rose. It was smiling and thanking me for letting it grow and live.I caressed its silken petals like a Romeo who caressed the skin of his Juliet. The flower bloomed and became so brightly colored and big that passersby stopped to glare at it in awe.Its siblings too started showing up. Soon the bush became a show case of that garden and my life. One cold night I drank a bit too much and slept like a horse only to wake to a white sheet of snow. Green had gone and the white ruled. I panicked to the rose bush and almost screamed. The snow had made a grave over it. Lacking oxygen and sunlight its leaves and petals were ready to turn brown. There was nothing I could do to save it. In two days time it had reverted to the stunt that it was. Yet I smiled ! Why?



The flowering had left me a lesson after its demise.



Careful tending and hard work can lead to success even when everything seems impossible.Carelessness can lead to losses which can be total.



and then...



The life events are seasonal and cyclical...time and circumstances combine to make for fruition.



Medicine or human care can only prolong but not obviate natural decay.



There are always spoilsports for your 'victory party'.



Success cannot last forever.



You need to sow it with blood to make it work.



These were precious. All flower on a robust bush in my maturity that will never wilt inspite of all storms or snows.

as daylights shine wears thin
and evening is leaning on you heavy
like the engine of time has
forgotten to grease its wheel
your futility fueled smile has lost ground
in the struggle with the grin
of the man wearing a clown suit
he is a rainbow of laughs
he is the face behind the face that
you look into with approaching dread

the obvious winds of encroaching rain
tread briskly past my quiet ear
a motorcycle engine winds up its gears
in the summer like distance
like an echo in this autumn brink of evening
pretence of the storm
a few scattered cool drops of water
fall casual to the hard red surface of the patio
its faded and tattered paint beset with taint
here once sat a small brick wall
its remains scattered amongst the litter
in the overgrown weeds
as the rain begins in earnest
she leads me inside the house
and to a bedroom not used by shooters
the two of us sit in silence and listen to the passing storm
a woman without a word enters and
gathers herself in a corner

outside the window
sunlight creeps back over the world
reveals the man with the clown suit
sitting waiting for you outside the window
he had waited all his life
and he waits still
in his comfort chair
its worn plastic form strains but holds
his heavy thoughts
as the world passes in two's or threes
all the laughing faces
and the desperate lookers eyeing the safe harbour
he had waited all his life
inspite of the noise and garbage
he sits here and plays with the firebox
its heat keeps him from getting
a frozen heart

the three of us
leave the shooters house
making roads for the soothsayers den
only she can settle our earthly delemia
me, her and the clown
full on night gathers around our swift feet
the lights of the carnival
reflected in the puddles left by the last rain
the already stale the water is disturbed by our passing
the air smelled like cotton candy
and is full of noise
the soothsayer is mute
her lips sealed with beeswax
because she is mourning her camera
cause the camera was once her ticket out of town
it was gonna be a one way nonstop to hollywood
but it ended up being hollyweird and it wasn't in california
the four of us head for the interstate
if you cant solve it
run

I'm alone
All alone
In this big gigantic world.
I'm afraid - whose gonna help me ?
In the world full of atrocious souls.

Alone I transverse all the way ,
But being contemplated seeing the horizon's play.
Even walking through the dark or a vale profound ,
Never got the ending neither diverged found.

There thought I and I conjectured ,
If started as a traveller ,
Destination was far ahead ,
As it was the starting of my  nature's 1st chapter.

Trees , Birds , Animals , Water
Screamed at me to get attuned with nature .
So , charismatic felt I ,
Having something in my pie.
But , with a sigh ,
Questioned I ,
" How will I ? "
As very much destroyer of nature was I.

Answered the nature -
" There's always a new start ,
Forget about the past ,
Enjoy till you last ."

In the laps of mother earth ,
Like family I began to feel.
Born again in a new birth ,
Like home in which I began to heel.

Enchanted was the air ,
Which I sensed there.
Filled with the essence of love  and harmony ,
Inspite of the world who played monopoly.

Laughing  , giggling , loving and caring,
Was so much fascinating to see the emotions clubbing.
Sharing what they thought was little extra ,
Living in harmony was their secret mantra.

Something magical went on and on ,
As I stayed there long and long.
Ever longing will be our bond ,
And will remain for ever long.

Let me start by appreciating Austen Bukenya’s stand on the challenges that boggle young African writers. He recently published in the literature pages of Saturday Nation. In which he argued that before one can be declared a bad writer we must see his or her writings first. Good. I agree with Professor Bukenya.And I also argue yes, bad writers can also survive. In fact they can thrive alongside good and popular writers. Thus the way forward is to take a pen and write. But not to surrender to the torture by internal fear that you may write a bad book or a worthless script.
Charles Darwin also toyed with an idea of presenting his manuscript of Origin of species for a decade. He also feared that may be he had written a worthless book. But when he presented the book, it was suddenly published and became a spell binder in diverse respects. Same thing to Richard Wright, the Author of the Native Son. He similarly feared presenting the Manuscripts to the publishers on the basis of fear that he was only a ***** and not formally educated. But when he presented the manuscript, it was published and became the most influential book on race relations and civil rights movement in America of those days.
Thus, the first thing is to break fear of self doubt and begin writing. If whatever you write will be bad, just keep on as you may end up surviving as a bad writer. History of written literature has a lot of bad writers who have survived to extreme. And even succeed through persistent writing regardless of their sorry state of popularity. The glowing example can be seen in the case of Patrick Mondiano the winner of 2014 literature Nobel Prize. Mondiano was not popular and has been the least read writer until the time he won the prize. In fact by the time he won the prize he had less than fifty followers on his face book page. Meaning he was not known as a writer. But he emerged the winner of the Nobel Prize against titans of Literature like Phillip Rooth, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Salman Rushdie, Yarn Mattel and Haruki Murakami.The fact is that Mondiano’s books are not lively. But he has kept on writing alongside the discouragingly insignificant consumption of his literary workmanship.
Other writers that have persisted to write even if their works don’t excite readers are; Eric Ambler, Louis D’Amour, **** Francis and Alistair Maclean. They are all from America and they have persistently written for the past three decades. Thomas Mann also tastes to me as a very boring writer. I have read his short stories entitled Death in Venice. They proved so boring that I have gone back to read him again. But remember, this is the very book that earned him the Literature Nobel prize.
The African writers’ series has Nkem Nwanko the Author of Danda, Francis Salomey the author of the Narrow Path and Tayeb Saleh the Author of Wedding in Zayen.These are boring writers and as well their books are replete with technical mistakes of structure and grammar. But they have prospered to be known as African writers. Another supportive experience is evident in the writing career of Ayi Kwei Arma; Wole Soyinka dismissed Ayi Kwei Armah’s Beautiful Ones are Not Yet Born. Soyinka argued that Arma’s book is substandard inspite of author’s command of good English. He went a head to declare Arma as an incompetent writer. But to day every one knows that Ayi Kwei Arma is a saint of African literature.
So, writing is expression of individual ability but not excellence of education.And human ability varies from person to person. Therefore, there must be bad writers and good writers. Not every person can writer like Shakespeare. So don’t fear to write because you fear that you will not write like Shakespeare.

Alexander K Opicho
Eldoret, Kenya.

The future is framed
in a painting titled, Unknown
It appears to me as
a scene in a winding road
that is shrouded in a thick veil,
a misty fog of doubt

What tomorrow holds for me,
I do not know
For I have yet to arrive there
Certainly, nothing comes easily in life
Nothing seems set in stone

I cannot accomplish the journey alone
Inspite of my stubborn insistence to try
Counting just on myself,
out of my own efforts,
And I surely encounter failure
I've learned there is nothing worse
than going it all alone

So one assurance of hope do I fiercely cling to
It is the only way that I can survive

Therefore, I place my mortal hand in His,
A that hand is always offered to me,
And I grab hold of it for dear life
As the Lord is perpetually near
A divne lantern
unto my feet

The pathway ahead is still dimly lit
Only a few steps can I see at a time
But it is meant to reveal
only just what I need
To get me along through,
to penetrate the darkness

For what is faith
If I need not trust?
What is faith
If I demand to know everything?

A reminder of the shorter days
the orange globe sinks into haze
no longer casting warming rays
but shadows into night

the coolness of softest sand
beneath my back and in my hand
from where I lay there
breathing
taking in this awesome sight~

fighting sleep and fascinated
I face the setting sun
and every stroke of the painter's brush
lingers
before it's done.

firey red excites the soul
and set the mood in motion
orange and pink elicit sighs
like a full moon upon the ocean

streaks of purple are always fun
and bring on the bluegreen hues
a symphony for the setting sun
but gimmee the midnight blues

I want to gaze into the glory
tell me another story
oh bring on the colors
don't let me sleep too long~

I want to sing of your greatness
inspite of all my lateness
and whatever else my troubles
you see in me no wrong~

oh Lord, You are amazing
all creation should be praising,
I'll wait for you forever
or 'til the sun sets on my song.

daylight has passed quickly
that sunset was the best
in the darkness now, we hear the waves
which won't disrurb our rest

You begged me to read you my poems aloud but my words came out slurred from the wetness of the back of your tongue and my rolling tears I told you I could never write a poem about you because I only write about things that break my heart but you've clawed your way out of me and now you're just another empty entry in my journal

my mind is a vassal collection of thoughts to my body where my skin can't remember the feeling of your hands but my mind has an acute sense of your words

My brain is aching:

I'm not crazy I'm not crazy I'm not crazy
I remember every syllable and vowel your rotund mouth spoke I remember everything I remember everything

You always asked me why i was choosing to write about the collective 'them' over you but you chose her over me inspite of everything your lips formed

"I love the way your skin smell oh god I love it" says your darting tongue, but does her skin smell the same as mine or were you just confused that night? Because one time you told me my scent was so familiar in the back of your nasal cavity, that there was no mistaking it was me

I never thought I could write you a line of poetry because you were too good to me but I've written you a book because you're the bane of my existence and my god I can hear my blood rushing through my chest as it tightens and my airways choke up like one of your asthma attacks, and you reach for your inhaler so you can breathe but for me nothing can dissipate this feeling

I think of you with her on repeat like an all night movie marathon of my worst nightmares and how my brain mixed up what it was like to care about another human and how to tear one apart with my tongue

worthiness of stars
ants and lillies of the field
little gray sparrows
the sun is a speck of dust
universe's perspective

all encompassing
He rains on the just and unjust
throughout life's puzzle
but the sun's gotta shine on
a dog's *** sometime, ya know?

it seems so unfair
trial and error parenting
consumed by harshness
lashing out with cruelty
in never ending cycles

who you have become
seeing the things you hold dear
the flight of an owl
a sapphire bluest lake
a woman to share your life

you know who you are
the person you are inside
you turned out all right
an intelligent wise ***
handling demon's whisperings

somehow you made it
some kinda way you found out
learned it on your own
inspite of evil's face, you're
worthy of every good thing

~blessed be