When the sun is up,
songs of every genre
throw a banquet in my head.
They feast on my peace of mind,
and I let them—
rewind every war, every day.
I wake up spinning,
chasing a lottery song.
Every day arrives a sad song,
and I try in vain, hoping for rain.
Inside this house I built,
I find no home, no warmth.
What reason for this season
of hate and torture
and no future?
When the sun goes down,
my shroud of sorrow shimmers,
smiling toward tomorrow—
a tomorrow that’s always hollow.
©Noel Simba AKA The Amazing Pencil
@FOR THE POET
15 MAY 2026
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 4:19 PM UTC
When the sun is up,
songs of every genre
throw a banquet in my head.
They feast on my peace of mind,
and I let them—
rewind every war, every day.
I wake up spinning,
chasing a lottery song.
Every day arrives a sad song,
and I try in vain, hoping for rain.
Inside this house I built,
I find no home, no warmth.
What reason for this season
of hate and torture
and no future?
When the sun goes down,
my shroud of sorrow shimmers,
smiling toward tomorrow—
a tomorrow that’s always hollow.
©Noel Simba AKA The Amazing Pencil
@FOR THE POET
15 MAY 2026
