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Decra Kerubo Jun 2019
You knew it,
You knew how much you meant,
But I didn't know,
I was the chaff
And you were the grain

I was ready to withstand,
I saw how you drunk with them
You came tipsy
I didn't mind
In the name of love

I am not a dreamer
Neither do I see visions
How could I know?
I was there like a stream
For the sake of lack

You dropped me in an ocean,
You were sure I couldn't make it out,
Waters washed my scent away,
And you poured darkness upon me,
It's only you who knew.

I'm sending a drop,
It's carried by the rains,
Save me from this ******* of fake love,
I need my free air,
I'm suffocating, you can trust

Taste that tear drop,
It's salty unlike the raindrop,
Make sure it's bubble doesn't break,
Just that,
Just let me down slowly
That's a love poem, just asking to be released from love that loves a part and I'm not loved back
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 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 May 2019
Tell me,
How does it feel to write?
How does it feel to twist phrases,
How do poets feel?
How do writers hold their pens,
And I will know how to Hello a poetry.

I am not Harry Potter,
I wasn't born holding a pen,
I wasn't bought for pens till three
I am told, Harry wasn't born with a pen either
I know, he writes so perfectly
And now I know, I can hello my poetry

My fingers are too feeble to write
My focus  isn't in rhyming my scheme
My prowess is above the rule of poetry
My wonder is, why my pen makes such patterns.
My prayer, tell me how I hold my pen
And you will hello my poetry.
This poem is based on the organization title,
"Hello Poetry" and creativity in style where the pen is being held differently with regard to the holder. Then, other poets, recomend and the persona recomends theirs too.
Decra Kerubo Jun 2019
You liked it,
You made a comment,
You are not to blame,
You didn't know

The photo was lit,
The owner an angel,
The photographer hidden,
The camera's label erased

It dragged you within,
It wasn't clear though,
You asked for a push up,
I was down
How possible was that

I hardened my feminism,
And pushed you to place,
I was left in my pit
You didn't know The darkness within

And I can't be yours,
I can't hold you no more,
You can't read pain
It's too dark in here for you
This is but a reference to a person who wanted me to be his when he couldn't really feel me and clearly, he was up to gain.
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 Dec 2019
I snuggle in my sleep; I utter words in silence
I miss my steps of times in
I make haste every time I walk; I look up in fear
I am afraid, afraid of murmurs and hideous looks,
I am the scared, sad little Linzy.

She has a secret word engraved in the palm of her hand
She clenches her fist when I near to say hi,
She has a glare on her face every time our eyes meet
She moves her chair in a rush when I am near her,
She is my day’s existential horror

I look through the window in my small corner
I take a close look to see a reflection of me
I buy lenses so I can take a better gaze
I see none and this horrifies me even more
I am the scared sad little Linzy.

She appears liberated and eager to divulge
She walks right beside me during lunch hour
She lets me see the secret word, it is an epiphany
It was not a word, it was a formation of scars
She had dwelled on thorns instead of the beautiful roses
So did I!
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 Dec 2019
White scarfs, bald heads, short hair, lengthy strands
That's what colours our days,
Though, not until you realize the shadows within,
And the darkness beneath, where;
The spears clutch,
And the blood spurs,
Yet the ocean's still blue.

It is in the ocean, where;
Patterns are drawn,
And together make the beam,
There beneath, are letters,
Some in blue and others in red,
Then you must realize,
How deceptive the ocean's blue is.

It is the sea camouflaging the blue ink,
And coating the beetroots,
What if we were alike?
How about religion was love?
Then, the ocean would be white,
To somehow reveal the darkness,
The dark concealed underneath worship roofs.
Decra Kerubo Jun 2019
He held my hand,
Whispers moved
"no more time left "
That was a heartbeat
I escaped

Momma hugged me
She kissed my forehead
"no more men out there "
I turned on the radio,
My own voice sounded
"you are no more"

And I dance with the tune,
Nothing more,
I gat no place here
No more
Decra Kerubo Dec 2019
I remember, the voice,
Well no, it was scream, yet too soft,
Soft enough, like the pat on my shoulder
Perhaps, its warm arms, she desired
It wasn’t as cold, to cuddle the fire
But it’s the heat, that warms a cold heart
My inner me, did not want love,
Maybe just that peace of the heart,
It was not suicidal, I preferred it pain elsewhere,
Not in my heart, no!

I was at the edge of a cliff,
My self against the whirlwind
I was sure, it was time to end it,
The pat again, and this time round,
She said, ‘hold on a little longer’
But why? it was pathetic enough!
My horoscope was so dark,
Then what’s the reason to breath,
Well, I was just surviving, and not living?
This time round, she tapped me hastily,
‘Hey! We are not mad; we are just stigmatized!’
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.
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 Nov 2019
Years, down down the line,
For a while, I spoke in my brain,
Just to tell the tale of the rain
And how I didnt like the rays of its sun
I wanted to speak out yet!
Of how the sun shrinked my skin
And how its rays, scorched my beauty
I wanted to shout yet again!
To let the world know of its immense,
How many stones, I flew to the sky,
How much I battled with its rays

That was not the story,
It was all about the heart,
How the burn was intense!
And I hated the rays more,
I hated how heavy it all was,
I wanted light but not that of rays,
Maybe the light to neutralize the weight!

She tapped me,
And maybe I had forgotten,
I needed the ray of hope,
But too late, the rain washed it away!!
Speaking of a soul that distances itself from holding on to a hope, it had once lost.
Decra Kerubo Dec 2019
If words were not heavy,
If hearts were light enough,
We'd speak a common language,
We'd talk about the same heaven,
And dress in purple.

'They add to those that have,
And take from those that lack,
And brand it justice' she said,
I'd not want her in my art,
But she designed its world.

Roads aren't smooth,
But if I'm poshy,
I'd make it to the end
Check out the cars in seizure...
That's the agency in service.

Carry DNA tools to companies,
I'm sure all companies will be family companies,
Then, you inquire about kindness,
Well, its etched within us, they say,
And we'd rather have our own.

I wish we talked the same language,
We'd have a common definition of kindness,
And figures of love,
The we'd spark our world,
And grace its street.

— The End —