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Let me sneak inside your body and discover
El dorado.
I want to feel your warmth,
taste your spirit,
dissolve into your cocoa butter skin.
Let my lingering palm delight in your heartbeat
and savor upon your multicolored mind.
The vanilla aroma of the air that flows
within your lungs shall
nourish me.
The sweet-scented syrup that drifts through you shall
bathe me.
I want to learn the language of your veins
and make you weak
as I whisper it upon your neck.
Let me transform you into a waterfall,
dripping wet
from my loving.
Let my soul slip into yours
and create
life.
Michael Kariuki Oct 2018
the sky is most blue
when I stare into the clear
waters beneath her.
Michael Kariuki May 2018
Am I really that unusual
if unusual people
like me
exist all around the world.
When will I
stop being unusual
and accept my
usual existence.
When will my symmetries
become symmetrical
to those of everyone
around me.
All that I hope for
is the unlikely realization
that I
have begun a revolution;
A revolution that involves
my unusual self
realizing that I am
not unusual
which thankfully,
remarkably and
ultimately makes me
unusual
(because such absurd realizations
rarely occur).
Yet with this revelation
remains the vile truth that
somewhere
down
the
line
I shall become usual again.
Well,
At least I have begun the future,
and I am not stuck in the past
like something
usual.
Michael Kariuki Feb 2018
Blow to my head, I realize that
It may be my destiny.

Smack on my face, I realize that
It may be my reality.

Punch to my chest, I realize that
It may be my entirety.

Strike to my abdomen, I realize that
It may be my infinity.

Whack on my legs, I realize that
It could be gone.

     It was actually She.

          She was actually He.

               He was actually I.

                    I was actually We.

                         We are Celestial Energy.
Michael Kariuki Feb 2018
A knife has ploughed into my wrist,
    tearing my veins like little blood-red strings.
A knife is maneuvering through my arteries
        slicing and dicing like a butcher.
The tip of the blade has survived
    the journey to the other side of my wrist
leaving a cavernous hole of flesh and mangled meat.
        The knife is not done, it wants more flesh.
Blood is spurting onto the floor,
    Morphing into a scenic red painting.
The blood looks like grape juice spilling out of
        my straw of an artery.

Did you think that the knife was the slaughterer?
    A hand is directing the knife.
A hand is training the knife to carve out
        my mashed wrist into smuttier mesh.
The fountain of blood spraying around the room
    is making me dizzy.
My ruby eyes follow the faint pathway of the hand
        controlling the piercing blade;
up the forearm, round the elbow, along the shoulder,
    till I can't look anymore. Why?
I'd be glaring into my own ruby red eyes,
        wouldn't I?

— The End —