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CAM  Nov 2018
Keep Telling Me
CAM Nov 2018
If you keep telling me to be quieter,
  Maybe I’ll stop talking.

     If you keep telling me you can’t hear me,
     Maybe I’ll finally yell.

        If you keep telling me I’m being dramatic,
        Maybe I’ll stop telling you things.

           If you keep telling me I’m fine,
           Maybe I’ll show you I’m not.

              If you keep telling me I’m confused,
              Maybe I’ll figure it out.

                 If you keep telling me I’m stupid,
                 Maybe I’ll be smart enough to leave.






                 Maybe I’ll be smart,
                 If you stop telling me I’m stupid.

               Maybe I’ll figure things out,
               If you stop telling me I’m confused.

            Maybe I’ll be fine,
            If you stop telling me I am when I’m not.

          Maybe I’ll tell you things,
          If you stop telling me I’m dramatic.

        Maybe I’ll stop yelling,
        If you stop telling me you can’t hear me.

      Maybe I’ll keep talking,
      If you stop telling me to be quiet.
“What are those marks on your arm?”
Instincts pulled the fabric of my sleeve over the evidence and
I thought of giving my normal excuse:
My car scratched the hell out of me.
Most people didn’t know that I actually had a dog,
But they never questioned the lie.

I didn’t answer the girl’s question right away
And the silence that filled the space between us
Reminded me of when a stranger enters the elevator;
Neither of us talked or looked at each other.

I thought of telling the curious girl about my teenage years
And how it seemed a dark cloud hovered around me,
Reigning over my head and sliding beneath my feet
Like a magic carpet, taking me to places I didn’t enjoy going.

I thought of telling her that often times I felt
That terrible cloud becoming stronger, overwhelming me
Like turning on a faucet, warm water covering the bottom
Of the bathtub, inch by inch, creeping over the surface like the tide drowns the sand.

I could feel it like that eerie feeling that comes
Before a big thunderstorm, starting near my feet and seeming to
Crawl up my legs like a gust of wind creeps under a sundress
And I tried to hold it down or push the cloud away.
But pushing it was like pushing a cloud of smoke. It swirled
To other parts of my body but still it lingered around.


I thought of telling the girl that while growing up,
When it rained, it poured.
One thing went wrong and five others went wrong,
Like a design of dominoes. One tips over and soon
You’re left with too many pieces scattered over the floor.

I thought about telling her that I often
Laid in bed at night, a staring contest with the ceiling,
As I imagined myself floating around the high walls of a church
Where my funeral shouldn’t have even been held
Because of all the sins I’d dreamt of committing.

Suicide is considered a sin.

I pictured my mother crying, my brother trying to keep his composure;
My friends who’d dressed in black and sat in the church pews,
Keeping hold of the secret they’d refused to do anything about.
I imagined a lot of hugging and tears, but mostly I heard the lies
That they’d say about me:
“She had so much going for her.”
“It’s really too bad.”
“What a beautiful girl she was.”

I saw myself lying inside the casket, one half of it open,
Revealing my arms crossed in front of me,
My fingers laced in between the spaces of each other
As if I was praying, but it was much too late.

After discovering the scars upon my wrists,
I would be clothed in long sleeves to hide what everyone
Had been pretending not to see.

I didn’t tell the girl that I’d already seen my funeral.

She continued looking at me, waiting for the answer
To the question I’d hoped would never be asked.

I thought about telling her how I kept a thin, silver
Razor blade hidden inside my purse so when the dark
Cloud threatened, I could slice my way through the roaring
Smoke harboring rain droplets that wanted to fill up my body of a bathtub
And consume me.

I thought of telling her that there was a time when I depended
On such a small, dangerous object. I thought about telling her that
I often held the metal like a lifejacket to keep me afloat
Amongst the raging flood waters that wanted to drown me.

I thought about telling her that late at night after I was sure the house
Was asleep, I cried huge, heaving, silent sobs.
My pillow caught my tears and my blankets severed as Kleenexes.
It was all I could do to hold back the truth of telling her that
I grabbed my life preserver many times and would drag the blade
Across my flesh, creating a ripple of red ink over my pale, white wrist;
A tear in the shower curtain that protected my body.

I thought about telling her that many nights
I drank too much alcohol and digested too many pills
And cut myself too deep into what seemed like my own burial,
To where I couldn’t see the light at the other end and it felt
Like the casket lid had closed over me.
I didn’t tell her that I tried to climb to the top of the hole
Where I was buried, only for it to feel like someone had
Stepped on my fingers, the pain making me let go and fall again,
Deeper to the bottom.

I thought about telling her that I’d been lost and tried
Finding myself by drawing maps over my wrist with a
Car that had seen too many miles in such a short amount of time.
I thought about telling her that I made too many mistakes that I couldn’t
Take back; ones that I couldn’t hide or cover all the time,
Like tattoos that wouldn’t wash away.

I thought about telling her that I stopped wearing my seatbelt
When I drove anywhere because if I was in an accident,
I would have a better chance at dying.
But she wouldn’t understand.

So instead, I pushed my sleeve back up to the middle of my
Forearm where it’d been when she’d first asked,
Exposing the straight lines of flesh that had healed over but
Left a permanent scar of elevated skin.
I ran my fingertips over them, feeling the wounds
Like a train moving over the ridges of a railroad.

The girl’s eyes studied my scars that I showed her.
I took her arm in my hand and traced my fingers over
Her skin, smooth , without any ripples,
Then told her to do the same.
She did, then repeated the same motion on mine.
Her cold fingers touching what I’d never wanted her to see.

We made eye contact again.
“Do you see how your skin is soft and smooth?”
I asked her. She nodded her head in response.
“That’s how it’s supposed to be. Don’t ever think about ruining it.”
I whispered,
Wishing my mother had said the same to me.
here is yet, another version of this poem. I'm really trying to get it right. It's important to me. Feedback and comments are ALWAYS appreciated and encouraged.
p.s. I'm still unsure about the title :/
Benji James Sep 2018
Don’t stress
Your pretty little head
No need to pull out your hair
In frustration
It’s all gonna be okay
Not telling you not to rage
Don’t sweat
The mascara
Beneath your eyes
Keep those eyes dry
Not telling you
that you shouldn’t cry
Just ensuring you
It’s all gonna be alright

Need a hand
Here hold mine tight
Need an ear, I’m here
Let out all your frustrations
That are weighing you down
In your emotions
Won’t let you drown
There is always a way out
Tell me all the nightmares
That keep you awake at night
Let me take them out of your mind
Demons hunted me down
But I cast them out
Listen my little queen
You just gotta take some time to see
Look deep inside and realise
You can beat these challenges
Laid before your feet
I’ve got faith more than belief
Open your eyes real wide
Let your heart be your guide
Instinct won’t steer you wrong
You’ve got power deep within
Let it out to fly
Fill the world with pure light

Don’t stress
Your pretty little head
No need to pull out your hair
In frustration
It’s all gonna be okay
Not telling you not to rage
Don’t sweat
The mascara
Beneath your eyes
Keep those eyes dry
Not telling you
that you shouldn’t cry
Just ensuring you
It’s all gonna be alright

You’ve written songs in the dark
Been bruised, been scarred
Still beautiful, still art
Can’t take away all these lessons learned
The fires in your eyes
Come on girl
Ignite those stars
Make them shine bright
Encrypted in twilight skies
Memories etched into your mind
A smile begins to take place
Rosie cheeks light your face
Hair sways slowly in the wind
Such a pretty picture
Captured in a frame
Deep inside she pushes down her pain

Don’t stress
Your pretty little head
No need to pull out your hair
In frustration
It’s all gonna be okay
Not telling you not to rage
Don’t sweat
The mascara
Beneath your eyes
Keep those eyes dry
Not telling you
that you shouldn’t cry
Just ensuring you
It’s all gonna be alright

I see beyond your lit up eyes
Deep inside you want to cry
Hurt yourself, leave scars
Now you are marked on the outside
From the frustrations and hurt
Breaking apart your insides
It’s tearing up your heart
Eating at your conscience
Why is it you always feel responsible,
When it’s not your fault
All the damage caused
even those mistakes
Aren’t yours to bare
To ******* yourself
Your feelings you wish to share
Trust in people was hard to find
Locked in your room
Pillow tight
Till sleep you cried

Don’t stress
Your pretty little head
No need to pull out your hair
In frustration
It’s all gonna be okay
Not telling you not to rage
Don’t sweat
The mascara
Beneath your eyes
Keep those eyes dry
Not telling you
that you shouldn’t cry
Just ensuring you
It’s all gonna be alright

You grow a little more everyday
Take a step, take a breath
Just breathe, easy angel
You’ll see this world
It’s yours for the taking
Even with all these shattered parts
You can still mend the heart
Even scars fade with time
Need to learn to capture the thrill
On this roller coaster life
Take a look back
See how far it is you’ve come
All these races you have run
Each mountain peak climbed
Come so far, got a long way to go
Take a moment to enjoy the ride
Doing so well it all gets better with time
Beautiful girl with the adventurous heart
She has a new road to start
Take a look back at the trails blazed
Then to your future you can make your way.

Don’t stress
Your pretty little head
No need to pull out your hair
In frustration
It’s all gonna be okay
Not telling you not to rage
Don’t sweat
The mascara
Beneath your eyes
Keep those eyes dry
Not telling you
that you shouldn’t cry
Just ensuring you
It’s all gonna be alright

©2018 Written By Benji James
epictails May 2015
I think we ruin children by telling them
Crying is bad
When crying is being vulnerable
An expression of pain so natural
So they grow up to be ashamed of emotions

I think we ruin children by telling them
They have to become someone
When being themselves is already being someone
So they grow up wanting to be someone they are not

I think we ruin children by telling them
Disobeying the rules is inexcusable
When sometimes breaking the rules,
Is freeing one’s self from the expectations of others
So they grow up to feel insecure in the face of uncertainty

I think we ruin children by telling them
Monsters are supernatural creatures
When monsters can also take form in humans
Who exploit, manipulate and trample on others
So they grow up unable to confront even their own monsters
For how could something so unimaginable take form in themselves?

I think we ruin children by telling them
Punishment is discipline
Spanking, verbal fear to shut them up good and easy
When there is a thing called gentle discipline
One that requires less pain and more understanding
So they grow up to become aggressors
Believing they are heroes who save others from disorder

I think we ruin children by telling them
School is the best way to getting around life
Drowning in grades, homeworks and activities just to get by
When experience teaches far more important lessons
School can only teach in words
So they grow up to believing the good life is a tried
And tested pattern and there are no other ways to live

I think we ruin children by telling them
To avoid fears instead of confronting them
When the dark, cockroaches, dogs, can be overcome
So they treat fear as an enemy
Instead of being a friend, a lesson
One that teaches them to be braver, to be stronger

I think we ruin children by telling them
What you wear is what you are
Frills and laces for girls, ties and pants for boys
When anyone can wear just what the **** they want
Clothing is a choice in as much as who they want to be
So they grow up confined by what the crowd is wearing
Fearing any diversion would make them odd

I think we ruin children
By making them believe that success
Comes in fancy clothes, cars, a truckload of money
When happiness is the real mark of a well lived life

I think we ruin children
By telling them being alone is a shameful thing
When the key to understanding one’s self
Is through the painful yet productive solitude
That people so likely shame
So they grow up believing their happiness
Is in other people’s hands

I think we ruin children
By telling them outer strength is the real strength
When there are children who
Cannot lift their own chairs
But have the strongest, bravest hearts
Fighting their way into sad days
Like the heroes that they are

I think we ruin children mostly and importantly
By believing
That they are wrong
That they are too young to understand
When all the while
We could have been wrong
Age makes us not wiser
Just older
And so children lose their capacity to see things brightly
And the biggest chunk of the world’s dreamers are then silenced
By adults who never really believed in the magic of the world
As much as the kids do

So how do we ruin children, really?
By telling them being themselves
Is the least they could ever want
By telling children
That being who they are will never be right

This is extremely long and I don't even expect anyone to read this HAHAHA.  Just that this is not so much a poem as it is a rant. I could care less about the mechanics and rules of poetry but this is really important for me because this is my  (and a big number of kids') childhood. First draft and will continue tweaking this until it can be read better lol xD I have no right to question any parent's way of raising their children but this is just how I feel.
Caterina Correia Aug 2018
& I keep looking in the mirror,
Telling myself Im beautiful.
& I keep looking in the mirror,
Telling myself Im skinny.
& I lock myself in my room,
Telling myself I'll be released.
& I stay in my room,
Telling myself I'll be able to get out again.
& I lie on my bed,
Telling myself that these negative thoughts will go away.
& I cry in my room,
Telling myself everything will be ok.
& I keep making myself bleed,
Telling myself the knife is the only thing;
To run away from my problems.
& I keep selling my body away,
Telling myself *** is the only thing;
To ease all the pain.
& I keep thinking,
Telling myself I'll find the right answer.
& I keep looking,
Telling myself I'll find what Im looking for.
& I keep dreaming,
Telling myself I'm going to these dreams.
& I keep being afraid,
Telling myself I'll be brave.
& I keep hyperventilating,
Telling myself my anxiety will leave me.
& I keep waking up,
Telling myself my insomnia will set me free.
& I keep believing myself,
for I have been brainwashed.
In the end I know I lie to myself;
Lilly Morgenstern  Mar 2014
Stop
stop telling girls
that they’re not skinny enough

stop telling girls
that their feet are too large

stop telling girls
that their stomachs need to be flat

stop telling girls
that they should always cross their legs

stop telling girls
that they have too much muscle

stop telling girls
that a d cup is too large

stop telling girls
that their thighs are too fat

stop telling girls
to **** in their guts

stop telling girls
not to sit like a man

stop telling girls
that their ******* curls are too big

stop telling girls
that they can’t take up space
like a ******* man can
because
yes
they
*******
can
Lundy Jul 2020
I remember our first conversation. We talked about mermaids.  You made a joke about sea foam, I was intrigued.

I remember you asking me out the first time. And I remember telling you I didn't think you were ready.
You lashed out. I was freaked out.

I remember you leaving without any warning. You decided you needed a change, dropped out of all your classes and hit the road.  For 6 months you sent me pictures of campsites. Pictures of elk and bear you'd shared sunsets with. Pictures of you next to cliffs you'd scaled.  Via texts you recouned a story of how you'd climbed a mountain just to find reception to call your ex. I remember wondering why you would tell me that? I felt slightly jealous. It turned me off. I remember you complaining to me that she was a "feminist" I said "Good for her." We both should have known then.

I remember sending you Gloria Steinem quotes with every campsite picture you offered. On your way back to California,  you asked to see me again.

I remember our first date, and how you asked if you could kiss me. I offered you my cheek, and later that night I couldn't stop thinking of your lips. You texted me that you wanted more. I remember touching myself as I fell asleep.

I remember you telling me you would die for me.  Laughing I told you, "That's so dramatic." You smiled confidently and told me you loved me. I said it back. We were watching 28 Days Later. I remember thinking we were so lucky.  

I remember building a bed out of blankets and pillows on our empty apartment floor. I remember countless trips to the hardware store, we were determined to build our own furniture.  I remember planting a garden, and proudly harvesting the garden. I remember frequent candle lit dinners. I remember your hands traveling up my skirt as I poured you more wine. I remember I wasn't wearing underwear. I remember us spilling the wine.

I remember telling you that you were my bestfriend. I remember pretending to be okay when you told me you already had a bestfriend and a soulmate  but that I could be your wife.

I remember the first time you hurt me. You regretted it immediately. Held my face in your hands I remember you kissed my cheek, again.  I still trusted you.

I remember the first time I hurt you. My off-white satin dress reflecting the moon. My animosity verbal daggers, I was so ****** I forgot to be ashamed. Sometimes I still forget.

I remember you telling me that I will never be your priority. I remember transfering money into your bank account. Weekly. I remember working 12 hours and coming home to give you head. I remember falling asleep on your chest as you massaged my neck. I remember thinking that was love.

I remember finding women's underwear in our laundry. An earring in our bedroom, and butterly hair clips in your car. I remember not believing you when you told me they were your sisters. I remember letting it go.

I remember that time you threw me against the dresser. I remember you telling me it was my fault. I remember letting it go.

I remember with you I had found a sister and a mother. I remember realizing these women I loved were victims of abuse. Belittled and silenced. I remember realizing I was a  victum of abuse. Belittled and silenced. I remember being disgusted with myself. I still wanted you.

I remember you calling me abusive. And you were right, I had changed.  "A cornered dog may cower, or it may bite." Our therapist had said. Do you see any of that now? Do you see how bruised I was?


I remember almost getting murded. And how much I struggled to feel alive after. I remember asking you for help. You told me it's not your responsibility.  

I remember the anguish.  I remember thinking about suicide. I remember telling you I didn't know how to survive. I remember you telling me I was weak. I remember behaving, feeling, like my mother.

I remember you hovering over me. Intimidating me. I remember telling you to step back. I stood on my tippy toes to look big too. And when you didn't back down, I chest bumped you. I remember you weren't sure if you should laugh or fight. I remember you telling me you didn't love me anymore and you hadn't for some time. The next morning I woke you up with my mouth on you.

I remember you leaving me. I stood in the doorway and promised myself I would not beg. I let you walk away. An hour later you returned, but not for me. It was never me. You took your gun and video games and again I stood at the door. This time I begged you to stay. I remember you walking away. I remember our dreams. I remember understanding that I was ******* done.

I remember packing under a THC haze. I remember leaving my lingerie for you to find in our closet.  In your closet. The black one with the garter belt on display. I remember Bodie having diarrhea on the carpet. I left it there. I also left you with enough money for two months rent. I remember you texting me telling me I owed you more.

I remember the day I ran out of clean underwear. I was late for work and so I wore your sisters, or were they your ******? They fit comfortably. I felt sick. I ***** called my neighbor when I got off work. I remember opening wine at 3am and doing everything to him that you used to ask me to do to you.

I remember you reaching out to me over some ******* excuse. I told you that you had already lost me but that wasn't yet true. I just had absolutely no faith left in you.

I remember that none of it was ever worth having you.
THE RAT AND THE PREGNANT WOMAN


A story poem

BY

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)



Dedicated to;
My mother Neddy Nabisino Mayende Kuloba Makhakara
And her mother Maritini Nabengele Nasenya Mulemia Namugugu Ilungu wa Wenwa.
The story telling power of these two ladies is the primary source of my passion and love for humorous and peace bettling stories. I owe them all the recognitions.







OPENING SONG
How do I start telling this story that I got from my
Grandmothers when sited around the fire yard in the evening?
I don’t know how to start surely,
For to day I am very shy; all of your eyes
Are on me, looking at me like ocean of looking organs
But let me embolden my self with the belt
Of a story teller that my grand father gave me
And commanded me to preach peace
Through story telling in every place I go
So my spiritual service to humanity is telling stories
Is to soothe and heal wounds of humanity
By softly telling peaceful stories
Let me then cough to clear my voice and start;

Long time ago, but not very long time
Some where between the centuries of twelve hundred
And seventeen hundred after the death of the other Jewish
Story teller who died without a wife, who died on the cross
But others say he died on the stake, his name was Jesus,
There existed only two kingdoms in land which is known today
As Bukusu land found in the present east Africa or Indian Ocean coastal Africa,
The first occupants of this vast land is the sons and daughters of Babukusu
Or the ones who like selling ironsmith products
And hence the name the people of Bukusu; the people who sell,
The two kingdoms were the Kingdom of muntu and the kingdom of manani
The citizens in the kingdom of muntu were short men and short women
Handsome and beautiful, slender and not assertive in their physical disposition
But the citizens of the kingdom of manani were all cyclopic,
In their everything; the manner of walking, talking farting, micturating
Farming, breathing, snoring, smiling, singing, whispering
Their whisper was a noisy as the tropical thunderclap
They were tall men and tall women, very tall
Their young person was as short as the tallest
Person in the kingdom of muntu,
When one of the citizen of manani snores
All the citizens of Muntu along together with,
Their king Walumoli wa Muntu had no option
But remain awake throughout the night,
Because the cacophony of a snore from
The sleeping courts of Manani was not bearable,

On many occasions Walumoli wa Muntu
The conscientious king of the muntu kingdom
Had arranged to talk to Silinki wa Namunguba
The ostensible king of the Manani Kingdom
About the cacophonous sleep robbing
Snores of daughters and sons in neighbour kingdom of Manani
Only to cow and chicken away in a feat of prudence
Lest Silinki wa Namunguba will suspect him for being
A night runner or a thief of *** perhaps
Who roams his compound during the wee of the night
In hunt of any of Namunguba’s wife maybe
Perchance having gone out for a mid-night *******,
This is how legendary snores of the sons and daughters
Of Silinki wa Namunguba the king of Manani
Has remained unchecked for ever till today,

One time an ugly passer by happened to be seen
Traversing the kingdom of muntu
In the early afternoon some two
Hours after Walumoli the king
Had just cleared the last plate
Of the mid day meal from
His last wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikaha Nobwoya
He always eats her food last in the afternoon
Because it comes on the table steaming youthfulness
He loves his Khatembete wife, the wife of his old age
The wife he married by use and show of the royal regalia
The powers and dignity of the king of muntu
He married her when he his a king, the scepter in his hand,

Going back to the ugly passer by
It was never known where he came from
Not from the east where the Indian Ocean is
Not from the west where the vastness of the land
Of black people of Baganda and Bacongo
Baigbo and Bayoruba or Bafulana of Nigeria
Or the sons of Madiokor Ngoni Diop in the Senegal,
Not from the south from shaka the Zulu and Mandella the wise one
Not from north in the land of Dinka and Nuer, Ethiopian Jewish and the Egyptians,
The passerby was ugly and from no where, in a dress and
A very ***** dress that fumed out a malodorously stenching reek
He was a man in attires of a woman; this was a taboo in the land of muntu
He was left handed and a heavy weight stammerer, with an appalling
Protuberation of   a hunched back, an enormous hunchback
Enmassing entired of his masculine shoulders,
When the wind blew his loose dress followed it
Leaving the man’s thighs and then bossom naked,
Leading bystanders to a strange discovery; he was not circumcised
He was old like any other father, he had beards
But not yet circumcised, his ***** ends in corkscrew of a sheath,
This was a taboo in the land of muntu, in the kingdom of muntu
Which Walumoli wa Muntu the son of Mukitang’a Mutukuika ruled
For the spirits, gods and ancestors as well as foremen of the kingdom
Behooved that all male offsprings of the kingdom of muntu
Whether born in marriage or out of the wedlock
Born the blood or born as a ******* must and must be
Circumcised in the early teen hood
They must be circumcised before they grow the hairs
On the face, on the chest, in the scapula and on the areas
Surrounding the testicles, the **** and the endings of the backbone,
The man again had six fingers on the legs and on the hands
He walks slowly like a porcupine, his dress was in tartars
He was violent to every one he met
Insulting old people and old women with words
Of bad manners not used in the kingdom of muntu,
He terrified and beat young children, including the royal children
And grand children of Walumoli the king of muntu
He again had to beat and chase nine young virgins
Who had come from the palace of Walumoli the king of Muntu
Away from the forest when they picking fire wood
As well as playing a game of hide and seek with other palace lads,
The ugly passer by then chased to get hold of the
Nalukosi the first born daughter of
Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikaha Nobwoya
The beloved last wife of the king of Muntu
All other virgins ran home, but Nalukosi remained behind
In the inextricable grip of the ugly passer by
She screamed with hysteria of a hypochondriac
She screamed and kicked with her wholesome mighty
The stubborn passer by never left her alone
She gnawed the ugly passer by with
Her girlish claws of her fingernails
But is like the passer by was mentally disordered
He was a ******* of some time
He derived some pleasure and instead
Enjoyed the girlish scratches of his captive,
Before the eight running virgins reached the palace
Together with their companions, the playmate lads
The shrilling scream of the captive Nalukosi
Was sharply heard at the palace, first by King Walumoli
Who called his wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo Khakhalikha Nobwoya
To come out of the hut, the kitchen and help to listen,
Immediately Mukisu wa Mujonji the palace keeper surfaced
His face displayed genuine askance of an adept military man
Whose martial arts have rusted for a week without usage
He confirmed to the king that the cry from the forest
Is of the one from this royal home of your majesty the king
And none other than the ****** princes Nalukosi Mukoyonjo
The pride of her father, the eye of the palace,
Without hesitation the king permitted the wallabying Mukisu ,
Permission to run in a military dint and find out whatever that
Was eating Nalukosi Mukoyonjo the familial heart of the king,
Mukisu wa Mujonji who was clearly known in the kingdom of muntu,
For his swift running like a desert kite, he already twice chased
And gotten single handedly two male gazelles,
Without aid of a dog nor aid of fellow hunters
And delivered them to the king as a present to the palace
Which he achieved because of the speed of his legs,
On this royal permission he unsheathed his matchette
And went away like any arrow from the bow
His shirt trailing behind him like mare’s tail
Or like the flag on the post on a windy day,
Not a lot of time passed.
Mukisu wa Mujonji is at the spot of struggle,
Between Nalukosi and the Ugly passerby
There was no question or talking,
The first thing was Mukisu to sink the Matchette
With all of his mighty into the tummy of the ugly stranger
The bowels of the ugly stranger opened puffwiiii!
He breathed and gasped twice then succumbed to death.
His grip still strong on the leg of Nalukosi Mukoyonjo
The ugly passer by reached the rigor Mortis
When Nalukosi was still strongly gripped in his
Beastly hand, Mukisu wa Mujonji with all the skills
Used a Sharp matchette again; chopped of the hand
Of the ugly dead passer by off, from its torso
At the point of the muscular elbow,
Now Nalukosi was extricated, but not fully
From the grip of the dead ugly stranger,
The chopped off hand is still knotted at her leg
Around her leg, the dead hand also grips.
Nalukosi jumped here and there to throw away
The leg and the dead hand, but it was not easy to throw
The hand still stubbornly gripped around her angle,
*** time passed, each and every one of the kingdom came
Including the king Walumoli wa Muntu himself
And his nine wives, Khatembete Khobwibo Khakhalikha Nobwoya
Came last, as she was energyless due to rudely shocking tidings
Which the escaping virgins and lads had given her
That the ugly passer by had turned into the ogre
And had swallowed her daughter Nalukosi
That he had swallowed her piecemeal without chewing,
People of muntu came and found the ugly passerby dead
The left had chopped off its torso
But still hanging loosely on the leg of Nalukosi
Nalukosi jumping, kicking, screaming
Screaming away the dead hand from the grip of leg
But nothing had forthcame her way,
Walumoli wa Muntu could not afford to see
The hand on the leg of her beloved daughter
What could he tell his wife, is your all know
Dear reader and audience to this song;
Even the mighty and the wise ones
Generously bend when under the pressure of love,
Out of this dint, even before Mukisu wa Mujonji
Could display his next military card
Walumoli wa Muntu grapped the dead hand
That stuck of the leg of her daughter
And pulled it with another force that
No man born of woman has
Never used since the creation of the earth
By the gods and spirits of Muntu,
The hand come off, he throw it
On the cadaver of the ugly stranger,
He clicked and clicked and hissed
With anger like a wild turkey
In the African thorny forest,
He ordered the dead one to be buried
Their without haste, nor ceremony
Mukisu wa Mujonji buried the body
Quickly in a brief moment with precision
As if he was taking notes
From the lines of the poem
OF Pablo Neruda on how
To bury a dog behind the house
This time burying an ugly stranger
Behind the forts of the kingdom,
After all these women, children and men
Of muntu plus their king Walumoli
Went back to their houses hilariously
Broken into a song and a wild *** dance;
Makoe eehe! Makoe !
Nifwe Talangi Makoe !
Talangi!
Khwaula embogo sitella
Nifwe Talangi!
They sang up to midnight before
They all retired to their beds
Respective beds with panting thoraces
From heavy singing and dancing.

There is connection and disconexion between
The living and the dead, the living fear the dead
And dead loves the living,
The dead want the company of the living
For the living to accompany in the land of the dead,
When the ugly stranger was killed
And buried uncircumcised with the hunch
Not plucked out of his back
The gods and the livings dead
In the realm of the ancestors
Of the kingdom of Muntu were not happy,
They never wanted uncircumcised old man
With a hunch back to join them
And worse enough with the six fingers,
The gods and ancestors really god annoyed
That Walumoli wa Muntu has done them bad
He is only caring for the living, the pre-mortals
Especially his last wife and the daughter
But he has neglected the ancestors,
Why trash to ancestors a stark humanity,
They communed among themselves
And resolved to sent Namaroro
The god of dreams, dreams as messages
From the ancestors and dreams from the gods
Namaroro visited Namunyu Lubunda the palace
Prophet in the Kingdom of Muntu to pass
The message vesseling unhappiness of the ancestors
And gods in a blend of gloomy read to execute
A vendetta;
This is when in the wee of the night that Namunyu Lubunda
Dreamed and had a vision of a old man from
The east is warning of the coming long spell of starvation
That will befall the kingdom of Muntu for ten years
                                      That Namaroro told Namunyu Lubunda
As for ten seasons of foodlessness
Behold a begging kingdom
Behold a starving throne,
The scepter of Muntu is a disgrace
To the holder
Then Namunyu Lubunda set forth by dawn
To the Palace to meet Walumoli wa Muntu
In his, palace before any other royal chores come up,
Both good and bad luck combined
Only to have Namunyu Lubunda to get the king at the palace
He got him fresh and relaxed chewing the cup of fortune
In his full ego, all his wives had submitted to the morning dishes
To his dining hall in the palace, he moved his hands from
One plate of food to the other.
Namunyu Lubunda entered with a submissive salutation
To the royal, He bowed and declared the glory of the king
In typical standards of the ethnic composition of the house of Muntu
Walumoli wa Muntu Mukitang’a Mutukuika
Majave Kutusi Mbirira Omwene esimbo ya
Kumukasa,
Walumoli responded with a feat of dignity to Namunyu Lubunda
The palace prophet, as he roared to him; come in
Come in son of Lubunda son of our people,
He did mention the name of Namunyu Lubunda father
As he fears his words may escape with the power
Of his kingdom the scepter of Muntu
To other insignificant families in the kingdom,
Let me announce what brings me here; intoned Namunyu
Go ahead and announce my holiness
s the prophet of this kingdom; responded Walumoli,
Misfortune is awaiting the kingdom
It will eat this kingdom away
Like a ravenous hyena on the ewe’s tail
The ancestors and the spirits of this land
This kingdom of yours the son of Muntu
Are immensely offended with your recent behaviour
In which you commandeered all villages
In your kingdom; from east and west
The **** the innocent passer by
With your owner hands that handle the scepter
You killed and lay to rest the foreigner
A pure omurende to the kingdom of muntu
You buried him uncircumcised without contrite
In the cemeteries of our foremen who asleep and circumcised
Why did you lower the dignity of our forefathers
Who never share a roof with uncircumcised person
To share the ancestral realm; our emagombe
With hunchback foreigner not circumcised?
This kingdom is condemned to all spell of curse of death
Ceaseless hunger famines and starvation
Women dwindle in their reproductive capacity
Rarely will you come across a pregnant woman
Food will be difficulty to put on the table
Even the sweat of your brow will go to naught,
You will not be buried with insignia
Like a pauper you killed will you be buried
The house of your wife Khatembete Kho Bwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya is a house of no consequences
For even your daughter Nalukosi stands cursed
She will not mature to be wedded into a marriage
She will hover the earth under heavy agonies of hunger,
My assignment is done and over
With or without your permission let me go.









THE FIRST SONG
Our song continues dear brethren
Come join me in arms we sing
Joyous singing of these songs of peace
Telling the world peaceful stories
As we enjoy sitting together around my grandmothers fire yard
Warming our selves to her lovely fire inherent in her good stories,
These songs will sing the glory and success of the king of Manani
It is an irregular Ode to Silinki wa Namunguba the son of Mwangani,
The son of Tunduli, the son of Wajala Njovu, the son of Welikhe, the son
Of manyorori, the son of Chumbe, the son of Kajo, the Son of Mabati, the son of welotia,
The son of sikele sia mulia, the son of Toywa,the son of siruju, the son of Mango, the son of Mulwoni sinyanya Bakhasi, the son of Mbakara , the son of Makhakara wa Nambuya, the son of Mukoye mulala kukhalikha w0nga, the son of Zumba the son of God.
Silinki
Masha Yurkevich Feb 2019
Stop .
Stop telling yourself
that you
are bad.
Stop telling yourself
that you will always be
sad.
Stop telling yourself
that you ****.
Stop telling yourself that you
are bad luck.
Just stop.
Start telling yourself
that you are
great.
Start telling yourself
that something great you can create.
Start telling yourself
that you are enough.
This is because
you can
love .
And everyone can love, all you need to do is try.

— The End —