Birthday's.
They start out as a celebration,
'Congratulations!'

Parties and presents galore.

But as the years go by,
And time takes it's toil,
Age begins to coil,

And rear it's ugly head.

The death that follows,
Can come quietly, swiftly,
Or it can come cruelly, fiercely,

And ruin the lives around it.

I couldn't help notice in my devotion
to your pink lips, sweet breath,
from your deep depths, the impending
kiss that follows the free spit
of a wordsmith tastes more unpleasant
since you quit calling a noose
a noose, gave the blind spot presence.

born in chains I could not see,
heart was pure and mind still free,
but as the time had passed me by,
I noticed love and peace say bye...

I read; without a shadow of a doubt,
I wrote; beyond a shadow of a doubt.


Life was cruel and life was cold,
Words were calm and words were bold.


I fell in love with constant pain,
that left my heart and soul in vain.


I became humbled each time I read,
and immortal each time I wrote,
I became modest in times of growth,
and I shall not die although being dead.


For my words would live forever,
and my stories they'll endeavor.
These young folk who'll come along,
who found a place where they belong.


In times of hate and sorrow, guilt...
my poetry would be their guide,
that's why I love this poetry inside,
coming out this heart and soul rebuilt.


I wrote poetry to save those mourning,
so they'd fine love in life each morning.

the buildings
hum
with the energy of
thousands of people.
Thousands of lives
converge,
made up of
thousands of unique combinations
of jobs,
love lives,
families,
and friendships-
thousands of experiences.
Thousands of worlds
blend together into
a symphony
of life and being.

and there they sat
each passerby
with vivid lives
the urge to cry

magnificent words
on some of their tongues
and a song to sing
in each of their lungs

the hand they bear
some never know
and I think we
must learn to grow

Running through the streets of New York in the rain

is like standing at the edge of the world and having no idea where you want to go.

All I know

is that as my hair hung, wet, and the moisture that hit my skin, set,
I could feel myself living.

I could feel the people parading the streets.
Their feet hitting the floor harder and faster than the raindrops that fell around them.
Their sound
echoing the gun shots they walked in dispute of.
Their shouts
screamed louder for them by the skies above.

I was but a particle of one minuscule droplet that fell to the pavement on one street of that entire city that night.

But I felt like the storm.

I have experienced my body divide,
My body has split in two and moved,
It's moved physically and mentally,
I don't know where I belong.

Physically I've moved from one country to another,
Mentally I thought I'd remain,
Agenda after agenda and attacks on those least fortunate,
Causation of my mentality to now follow suit and depart the supposed land of cultural heritage.

Going 'home' no longer feels like home,
It feels wrong,
I feel shaky, I feel judged,
I want to leave they're looking at me,
But I'm white I have privelidge,
My physicality doesn't let me fall to prejudice but my mentality does,
It's like I'm invisible,
Undercover, I'm a target but they know not of me.

Judgement made in prejudice,
Discrimination made in skin colour and faith,
This is no longer my home,
Goodbye.

coffee house is a place where you doubtlessly see all the people being swept away in an invisible connection you can not see--sometimes, there are also some people who get caught in discussion and stuck by diffusion. the coffee that you drink often converts you its energy to analize your life's difficult problematics.  

coffee house is a place where you will genuinely feel sane if you see some people reading their own scripts or feel well-earned if you witness the self-interested people--where they hear their own tunes just for themselves, where they do not want to give you the same opportunity for joining them in thrilling your cochlear, even through the air filled with whiff of vapour. vapour which doesn't comprise the fumes of nicotine, but there is just a little amount of caffeine in its womb. however, vapour is vapour. it has its ability to serve you an effect to crave which oftenly makes yourself lose its excuse to refuse.

coffee house, is a place for the people who are looking for identities. coffee house is made for the people who keep analizing the layer by layer of their lives, for the ones who keep hunting  the nucleus of your providence's atom, for the people who keep ripping apart their particles. not dalton, neither rutherford, nor thomson, not even bohr, as the ones who might be able to serve you a soup of theory which if you eat it, you might be enlightened and your life might suddenly be well explained. the chaos of your life can not simply be explained that way.

coffee house is a place where you will find the lonely people whose lives will always be tossed around, the people who keep glorifying the fumes of caffeine that can hit you back to the point where you can be boiled by new hopes. and it remains that way all the time.

coffee house is a place for them who are hurt and diseased, but feel like hospitals are not the right house to canalize their moans. precisely, they will find their house here.

in a coffee house, you will learn to be yourself, and you will never find the lesson at all schools.

in a coffee house, you learn how to admit your predestination as the Audience of Lives.

coffee house is a place where you will always find your own cinema seat.

Stefan Sagala,
February 4th 2017.