Why does it pour? Why does the rain fall?
Why does it shine? Why does the sun glow?
Why does it blow? Where does the wind go?
Why do they grow? What are all these plants for?

We are gathered here today, paying our last respects to giving a **** what people say or think about us.

As we lower all sense of shame for who we truly are into the ground we await the day when our personalities decompose into what they were meant to be. We pray that the blueprint of our essence may be received in the glory of freedom.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and us to us.

We were looked down upon and called ‘black sheep’ or ‘lost souls’ because we perceived life through a liberated lens but that doesn’t matter now cause we are in a better place: because we are dead, we can’t be chained in prisons of their expectations anymore. We can’t be told how to live our lives anymore.

As death frees the spirit, we free spirits declare ourselves, as of this death, truly free.

They should meet at the right time in the right place. It’s supposed to be perfect, right? Guy meets girl —guy says “hey” —girl says “hey” back and girl finds herself  chuckling at he’s tasteless jokes and gets fascinated by his basic flexes. Blood flows to her cheeks turning them red as  the nakedness of his words of flattery ***** them. Each new day, they walk into the sunset of time and get tickled by the hourly breeze. The directions into each other’s hearts shouldn’t be hard to follow. One right, another right after the first right —skip the first right and take the second right after that right, right? It’s supposed to make sense right? She’s supposed to be the right girl and he’s supposed to be the right guy left for her, right? She’s the missing piece of the puzzle of his heart; the blueprint of his eternity. They should blend right; the smoothy of their bond bursts with the taste of their liquid love salad. They know each other; They understand each other. They say the right words and do the right deeds. They never argue or fight; they never fall short of each other cause they are the right height. I’m right, right?

Curse this heart of coal!
Ever burning— ever consuming itself from within:-

Author and finisher of its own distraction.

Why did the fire choose me? Did it not know that I am a heart of coal? — and the more it uses me for who I am, the more I die by what I am.

Curse this heart of coal.

Hey bro. If you get this, you’re the boy that gets to love this little angel. A few pointers: Number 1: If she gets a little moody, she’s either tired or hungry..
Number 2: she’s allergic to peanuts, berries and honey..
Number 3: If you run your hands through her hair, she falls asleep..
Number 4: she.. she’s the best that’s.. that’s..

I want her back..

Unlike Adam, I only declared her the bone of my bone when my bones grazed through the edges of hers; Flesh of my flesh when my flesh reaped through the flesh of her once-beautiful skin.

She is Bruised for my iniquities. The artist in me made her back a mosaic of the anger I whipped into the core of her being. I am an artist of pain. Scarring every figment of her body and mind from the crown of her head to the foot of her soul and spirit just for a taste of her screams. Just for the pleasure of smiting droplets of blood out of her fragile body.

My princess; My punching bag.

By her stripes, I am healed. So each stripe quenches the thirst of my soul that pants for a drink of her ****** body that screams in anguish; for the remission of my sins, she is my Jesus.

Her gashing blood is the evidence I need; just enough a reminder to me that her heart pumps and repeats its beat in sync with the rhythm of the beat of my toxic masculinity to sustain the cravings of my angry heart; the dance of my spiritual fists.

I love her. I loved her then and I love her now. It was love at first fight.

“Walls have ears.” — I’m embarrassed that these panels of brick, concrete and sand get to hear my midnight screams.

I always thought screams were loud. Now that I understand life a little better, I see that screams are sometimes quieter than the faintest sounds.

Passive aggressive comments; Status updates; Attention seeking; Longings made known; innocent projections of pain; long searches without finding — all forms of screams that often go unheard.

You’re screaming for help and you don’t know it; sinking in life and thinking you’re just going about your normal daily business but because I understand life a little better, I see that your screams are quieter than the faintest sounds. With every passive aggressive comment, ever status update, every attention-seeking stunt, every longing made known, every projection of pain and every search without finding, you are screaming. Ignorantly hoping that someone who understands life could hear.

She was ugly but he made her feel like she had it all wrong :—
When she complained about her dark spots, he would whisper into her funny-shaped ear, “that’s what made me spot you,” and when she complained about how fat she was he said, “I’m happy I gained you.”
He called her thick untidy ***** hair the ‘fortress of his love’ and her bushy eyebrows the ‘blanket for his cold soul.’
He told her her stretch-marks were the waves on the body of her sea and he would surf them with his fingers.  
Because her nose was big, he would tell her, “you take my breath away,” and when she looked into the mirror and saw the dark circles around her eyes he would always tell her about how he would love to travel the universe of her soul cause they were dark holes.
It was odd that everything she hated about herself he loved ever-so deeply — She was ugly but he made her feel like she had it all wrong.

It’s either I’m a bad bartender or you are bad customers- I refuse to believe it is the former.

I’ve spent years learning how to flair; I’ve juggled bottles, flipped liquors and done magic tricks to wow you but all you care about are your cocktails.

So I’m done pouring into cups I never get to drink from— done serving tables I never get to eat from.

I’m done being a mixologist for people that prove they don’t want to mix with me, which is to say, I refuse to be the friend that always calls; the friend that always splits himself thin for “friends” that would never do the same for me.

So the next time you come to my bar to drink, don’t expect to see me at the counter— don’t expect to see me in your life.

-Buumba Munene-

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leading you on and repeating it. I’m sorry for allowing your feelings to bask in the sunlight of my deceit while playing the strings of false hope with my tongue that produced lies as the tunes of our make-believe love-guitar just to get under your clothes. I’m sorry that I kissed your lips without intending to kiss your soul. I’m sorry that I said I love you when I didn’t mean it and for engaging you  without engaging  guilt . I’m sorry I promised forever when I knew there was no beginning; and I hate myself for knowing that I started a chapter in a book not worth writing. I’m sorry for saying “yes” when I meant “no” and saying “come when I meant “go”. I despise that I was too immature to let you pass by and I frown at myself for not turning my “hi” into a “bye”. To every girl I’ve played before: I’m sorry.

I’m drawn to her by forces I can’t verbally express so I will draw this to you. Enchanted by her very existence. Her presence is like a drop of water on the tongue of a desert man panting for a drink; just enough to have a taste of what could quench the thirst of my heart But doesn’t really. She’s My crush so I’m definitely afraid. Afraid to text cause I could easily be another clown trying to slide so I maintain my position at the sidelines of her life, pretending I can’t see her while I watch 22 other undeserving dudes play. I could wave but that could chase her away cause she’s ‘fly’. So I sit in my chair and have day dreams of my dream girl. She’s so close yet so far away. So mine and yet not. I’m in love with the thought of ‘us’ but I know that’s impossible. I could hope to have her one day but it’s easier to hope that my feelings fade away.

Afraid to sleep because I’m haunted by her ghost. Afraid to stay awake cause she is not here anymore. So I try to strike a balance between being asleep and being awake and it’s called ‘anti-depressants’. I would rather be awake and feel nothing than face the fact that I lost the love of my life. See, when she died, my heart lost the ability to stand so I sit in my chair and sniff.., and puff.., and inject.., and swallow the only form of peace this world can give me. My church disowned me for being a ‘drag addict’ but they don’t get. I’m not addicted to the drug, I’m addicted to the peace. I would rather bout the police than accept help from people that don’t get it. I can’t pretend I’m okay anymore so I’m here to tell the world I’m a crack-head. I’m hard-hit!life’s share of being mean? I’ve had it. hope? I baged it. I’m dead meat, I admit.. that I’ve lost a grip but.. I have an answer in the form of trip..to a world of euphoria, where I don’t see her  ghost or feel her absence.

I was in love while she was in a game of chess— This was nothing but a struggle between black and white; between love and hate; between purity and bait.
She loved before and was too broken to love again while she was my first.
She was so broken that to her  my ‘I love yous’,though genuine, were nothing but  pawns moving to weaken her defenses. I tried to be sweet but she **** saw those moves before. My flowers were knights and kisses were rooks because while I was in love she was in a game of chess.
When I couldn’t love anymore and she couldn’t play anymore, it was to me a heartbreak and to her a checkmate.
Now I’m playing chess too. Who’s next?

My favorite road is ‘memory lane’ because it leads to a place I love to be. A Place where laughter isn’t hard to come by and smiles aren’t so expensive to buy. A place where worry and anxiety are strange faces And depression and loneliness are rare cases. A place where forgiveness is accessed in an instant  and grudges always seem to be distant. A place where duty is fun and the closest thing to ****** is a water gun. A place where my bills pay themselves and clothes magically get folded and  sit in my shelves. A place where non-skeptical conformity can be tolerated because belief is easy. My eyes are shut by bars of the present but tears still escape their prison and dance along to the sad realization that I may never see that place again for one good reason; I am grown now. The closest things to true happiness are my childhood memories, so I spend my time walking down memory lane. Hoping that the further I walk down the road, the closer I get to the place I love to be.

Their bodies broke up when their spirits got together; when her soul said yes to his soul. Their ears didn’t need the dimming echoes of spoken words for them to hear each other anymore. Without looking, he saw how high her smile went and she could trace how low his frown went with the stencil of her compassion.
When her fingertips tickled the edges of his palms ever-so gently, she would  know just exactly what thoughts ran through his enchanted mind—she was his gypsy.
Their love transcended into the metaphysical: where shapes, forms, sizes and colour didn’t form the frame of the reality of their bond. Their unity was an emblem of spirituality.
Their souls intertwined; he was her Christ cause he was her vine and she was his branch that bore a fruit that they couldn’t help but eat and eat and eat and..eat.
Mimicking each other’s actions became instinctive; If she cried, he cried. If he was hurting, she was hurting.
Saying ‘I love you’ didn’t make sense anymore cause ‘I’ was ‘we’, ‘love’ was ‘breath’ and ‘you’ was ‘us’.
He became one with the stars cause when he strayed into the vastness of her mind he encountered a whole universe. He felt like the planets cause his world revolved around her light.
Death couldn’t ‘do them part’ because the death was their beginning.

You’re beautiful..you should take a nice picture ..potariat..in a suit so we can use it on your casket..what? Don’t look at me like you think you’re going to be around forever. Maybe you forgot that every second is a step closer to your grave and every minute that passes will never be returned.. that every hour deposited can never be reclaimed..death may be complicated but it’s inception can partially be explained. The dust of your body and the dust of the ground will one day have *** and give birth to nothing but memories of who you were before you died. And When Jesus asks your Lazarus to come fourth, nothing but your legacy will walk out of that grave.man decays like a rotten thing job 13 28..He comes fourth Like a flower and fades away job 14 2..he flees like a shadow and does not continue..here today and gone tomorrow.. that breath ain’t yours cause **** it’s borrowed..There’s hope for a tree if it is cut down ,that at the scent of water it will bud and bring forth branches that sprout again and that it’s tender shoots will not cease but man dies and is laid away..You’re beautiful.. you should take a nice picture..portrait.. in a suit..