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Decra Kerubo Feb 1
I peep through smoothly,
To evade the stench,
And lose track of the man next,
Who keeps wording in his snores,
Pin-drop silence, you get it?
I'm struggling for light,
Fresh air and breeze,
My mind goes dark one more time,
I reach for a glass of water,
Well, its champagne,
I wonder,
What it has to do with my mental state?
I see the men in blue pointing knives,
And I keep still.

I miss the streets,
Tough but kind,
We fight and eat together,
I'm tormented,
It gives me suicidal thoughts,
I wave across the corridor,
If someone will hold my hand,
'Hey, keep your place, you nincompoop'
Then I realize,
I stole for insanity,
And I'll get killed for that,
In the conspire of the sane.
This is a definition of the dark side of the mental rehabilitations, where, just like prisons, people are mistreated and trashed upon. They are treated like they don't deserve to live again.
Decra Kerubo Jan 8
She walks past me,
Stares back in disgust,
Pulls something out of her pocket,
And bends right in front,
She appears to pick something,
Heaven knows what,
So, I push myself left,
And like nothing happened,
I make strides ahead.

Its the path to the river,
And I need more water,
I walk back, for more,
This time, I meet sandals,
I recall cleaning them for Sandy,
But we no longer talk,
So I move right,
And like nothing happened,
I make strides ahead.

I balance my *** back home,
Trees swaying slowly,
Silence as usual,
Only the cracking of my bones,
It's a part shared by two homesteads,
Not unusual, a bird chirps,
And like nothing happened,
I make strides ahead.

The bird chirps more,
I bend to pick a stone,
But something's unusual,
A plain white sheet of paper,
With two stones above it,
So I pick a single stone,
And look above me,
The bird's beautiful,
Am carried away
Then suddenly, Sandy taps on my shoulder,
She holds the second stone,
And like nothing was happening,
WE make strides ahead.
Decra Kerubo Jan 5
If you're reading this,
Don't think I committed suicide,
Don't call cops to my grave,
And don't read my eulogy,
Its not a tale I would tell,
Its not a story to narrate,
Its from the fairy of the nights,
So to the murderer in white,
Who threatened me with a knife,
Carry a gun with you, next time,
Sharpen your knife thrice,
And keep your axe too.

My complexion takes, black, red, purple and white,
So to my murderer in white,
When you see me in red,
Spare my valentine,
When you see me in black,
Let me mourn my death,
When you see me in purple,
Pay me my respect,
When you meet me in white,
Drop your arms,
And if you ever happen to meet me naked,
That's the real me, unmasked,
And weighed down with anxiety,
Who's escaped the knife twice,
But wished for it thrice.
Decra Kerubo Jan 5
At times we miscalculate the moves,
We acquit at our peril,
With the irresistible vocals,
And beats louder than words,
Why we dance at our insults,
We are painted in black,
With crooked and spotted legs,
Yet, our desire is to glow,
Why we trusted our painters,
They dressed us in long white dresses,
Well, Mr Tailor knows about the front slit,
We dozzed in our drinks,
With olives for grapes,
In the serene choral,
Whose refrain was,
'Move, we stepping on you'
It's our minds that killed us,
We lived in the trust of their smiles,
And in their cold fragranced hugs.
Decra Kerubo Dec 2019
It's up until you build your nation, that you'll understand the ***** in a throne.
Decra Kerubo Dec 2019
Until you press on the edge of a sword, you'll never understand the trauma of a crippled.
Decra Kerubo Dec 2019
No one dislikes grand entries
Recognition, calms contentment,
It's a fact,we appreciate,
But have you thought of their world,
With words spearing the heart,
Yet too sharp, to get through,
When I talk of secret hearts,
I mean the painful baggage,
The lagguage in an introvert's heart,
So when they hold the curtains behind,
Give them the backstage role
Maybe they'll lean on the backs,
And make their grief known,
They are children of our mothers
And their world, is the silenced pain,
By the virtue, of abandoned upbringing.
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