kitaka-alex
I am a Creative facilitator, Writer Poet and a Pianist. / Facilitating youth in Creative Writing and Poetry at In Movement Africa. / Writing both creative fiction and Non Fiction with a touch of Poetry. / my works can be checked on the Thirst Magazine, where I am a Contributor in Short stories and Poetry under the theme of Peace. I am a Peace fellow with the Thirst Team and Peace Revolution. / tuck Magazine, an online publication and kahini has my works as well. / I am affiliated with quite a number of organization some that work mainly with visual art like 32 East Uganda Arts trust. / the rest, am available / kitaka Alex / Creative facilitator, Writer, Poet and a Pianist. / Creative Director Am Empowered Project. / [email protected] / 256779082990
On Resilience
Silence assembles in my room.
A little snail is on the wall
Climbing about like a groom.
Is that all it knows.?
All it carries is a shell.
Might think, one, there is more
Climbing about like all is well.
silence is shattered in my room.
A little snail is off the wall.
From outside devoured the inside,a boom
No more climbing about.
The little snail...
Is back in its shell.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:41 AM UTC
Can I do something else.?
Running away from writing
Running away from reading.
I think,
It is this thicket of books
That brings about all this emptiness
All this walk on a road not taken.
If I can be killed now,
Let it be now.
Let I go with the darkness
And when morning comes,
Let my smiles be no more.
Let my voice be in tatters
Let my words be scattered.
Perhaps I should throw away all the books in my shelf and glue my eyes on the television, believe and do whatever it tells me.
Perhaps I should burn all the books and inhale all the smoke, till I get drunk and die. Perhaps and only perhaps.
Am everything.
Am nothing.
Why? why....?
Why books became, become my only friends
We talk
Do all things with each other
But now am..,.
I can't ell anything.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
Come......
Come......
Come.....
**** me quick.
Let my blood leak
Into all bottles of wine
What life is mine?
Why did I stand in the rain?
Immersing myself in this pain.?
Come....
O! Come....
Come and **** me quick
I cant bear the weight of this generation.
I have failed to carry mine
Then How can i bear theirs
Come.....
Come.....
Come.....
Quick
I am not far
Do you see that star?
Drunk in melancholy, don't blame it. It is staring at me, with pity weighed down by melancholy. Follow its stare. Right where it directs you is where i am.
Come....
Come...
Quickly and **** me.
Exterminate me from the body of the earth.
Come and take my life
But before you do so,
Bury first, my words.....
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:23 AM UTC
“Black is beauty” this she last heard in high school
Eight years have now gone by
And her skin is evident of a pink plastic plate fading under sunlight
Black would have been beauty if her last boyfriend after high school
Had not rubbed in her face
You are not my taste
He said so,
After inserting his aggressive filament in her stigma
What more did he want to taste?
She thought, after him ploughing through her womanhood like a tractor
You are too black to be black
I prefer a light skinned kind of a woman, he went on
This was the dialogue
That put an end to their couple-hood
Now it is more than monologue
Between her and the her in the mirror
Seeing her she had become
Her that she was lured to
First, it was the rusting of the shimmering black on her skin.
Replaced by a colour similar to that of a dress worn by a ripe banana
Yellowish beneath a fading blackish and a pinkish rising
Yes, she was liked, appreciated and adored
Men serpentined at the threshold of her door
Yes this time around
She was the one that sang the song
She did not rub it on their faces,
She rubbed it on their *****
You are not my taste
I prefer a light skinned kind of man
You are too black to be black…
It is eight years now
And her skin is evident of a pink plastic plate fading under sunlight
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 4:26 AM UTC
What scope have I to know?
What field have I to explore?
For the desire to exalt the mind from the dank dark valley of the body.
Nothing. No a thing is mine knowledge of what weighs lesser than the wind.
Yet to claim mine honesty, I let the wind.
Failed I to quantify thy compassion.
So this queue of bouquets of words.
Splashing of sentences of flora.
For just as constellations pertain to the sky,
So art thou castellated within thine-self.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
death is a -
.............wo
......................who
..............................woe
......................................man
W
O
m
a
n
Eventually man will
s..
e..
r..
p..
e..
n..
t..
i..
n..
e..
into her body
Tear gripping ecstasy
Obedience paid to laws of intimacy
death bears
..............smi
....................ills
.........................hills
s
m
i
l
e
s
She is dead to love.
She is alive to hate
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
A pen,
firmly sat in the bosoms of her fingers.
Tentatively displaying his virility on a paper.
That shimmers like it has just been immersed in blood.
The words,
written,
stink like burnt bird feathers
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC