he asked me my country's future? And
             was startled I pointed to my smoking scars—
they are the path where I entered my pains.
                                                          ­                   I said.

my future wear prayers like sunglasses.

             we only show others what we want them to know                          
lying to ourselves, thinking out body is a single person.
            drowning in the arms of our potentials.

              he asked me my country's road
where the
past had tared for our journey
              through my eyes, he saw a fog future
linking only through to an un-motorable road —
              where museum of scars and blood
are the only vualable display antiquity
              and the violence a home where our beds are death
          
my country is a pregnant ******;
             whom everyone sleep with but no  one want her baby

we call people friends just to suit our purpose
            they are all fake because we are too. now i know.

don't **** yourself umar yogiza jr. don't die.
             your heart is not full, no one's heart is.
i cannot go round waiting to be loved
             everyone have themselves to love, and not enough.

The city walk, no one claim.
             the village I left, no one claim.
stranger at home and outside home
              all people care-for is their room.

yogiza, this city eat you like breakfast,
                                                      ­       yet you
               make your ancestral home stranger to feed you.

every eye on me is suspicion —now even mine.
               if you ask me where am i going? i don't know!
the past, present and future had been claimed
                i won't **** myself, i love you everybody i meet.
this is not my poem but yours. i want to smile.