As a student I was very talkative,
Sometimes I would talk nonstop,
And disrupt the class,
Exasperated my teacher told me to write an essay,"Why I enjoyed talk8ng.
So I wrote:
When mum was pregnant with me,
She loved to nap under our mango tree with a book in the afternoon,
My grandmother would  caution her not to sit under any tree as  suspicious witches lived there,
But mum would not heed her.
Now a good talkative witch lived in that tree
And as mum napped  we would talk for hours giggling and laughing
Sometimes grandmother would call out to mum for tea,
But the witch made sure mum was in deep sleep,
The witch enjoyed my company
You see she was the only one left in the tree,
Her family had gone to live in the baobab tree,
So she felt lonely.
All those months I had become a chatterbox,
Even after birth I started to coo all the time,
Bewitched by a witch I am ma'am.
26/2/2025

history invents the art of crying
writing its darkness manifesto
when the tear is hidden
the path follows a forced destiny.
what is there, to be found inside ourselves
something is looking at us
tribulations of mirage, the hazard of necessity
the word, the gun, the bone -
the threads of the revelation of time
sometimes history flows backwards
and my skull hurts like a broken umbrella
we taste the past, an obsessive memory
future, this Terra incognita, casts a muddy light
what is there to be found in the history of bones?

There, in the
tide pool, dappled by
the sun is birth and death,
and the spark that continues.
It leaves mankind in the wake of regret.
What have I to do with the albatross
Or sea lion?
I can but write, while they fly and roar.
I gaze upon the Pacific from this rock,
all its mysteries and grandeur.
I am inferior, while it forever reigns with
every wave and break of light.

Nestled deep within the feel and touch of home
this heart of love goes on a holiday
Like feathered birds in heaven when they roam
all thoughts of you arise, like birds of clay

Nestled deep within the soul I have no choice  
but flap these wings and lead you to my heart
Like  warblers in the sun with trilling voice
all thoughts of you sing sweet, it is an art

Nestled at the font of love the heart's own mind
is like a shelter of collective pasts
Like memories of old that can't go blind
all ardors of the heart seem to outlast

Unblinking as the sun that shines inside my heart
the heart and mind of you and I, will never part.

True religion
begins in the heart

The heart is the ruling power of manhood

You can enlighten the
understanding of man

But if his heart is wrong
the understanding only enables him to sin with a greater disregard for the responsibility resting upon him .

Every time I recognize this feeling
in the tonality of deeply shifting sounds...
The words start to flow—
so naïve,
with illogical convictions
not to doubt.

I think I’m in trouble,
but I smile at this joyful,
passing state of thought.
Utopia is Utopia, meant not to exist—
It’s a controlled illusion, like a sedative.

I can go there and return
in a millisecond of a human thought.
Creating alternative worlds,
following the traces
of a tender yet aching life.
It keeps me, for a moment, feeling
so vast, deep, and complete.

Outside, I’m so distant from games.
Sometimes I don’t even remember
the language I used to speak.
Unfamiliar words come to me
like a flashback, like déjà vu...
Finally, to recognize where I exist—
in the present moment, in real
circumstances, assumptions.

This is not a bizarre illness
to try to understand…
My reflections inside are still safe.
I just hold every shattered human soul,
seeing them without judgment,
without control…
This is my quiet, ephemeral way
to set compassion free.