I had to strip you bare
Of all your convictions
Because you had no choice
But to wear the weight of the world
On your broken back

I watched as you cried
Rivers upon rivers in the desert
Because life had given you no choice
But to save your dying garden
With the only water that you had left

The heaviness of standing up straight
Became too much for your swollen feet;
So instead:

You stand limply with a spine crooked
From the many dry days you spend,
back curled over,
And head hanging towards the earth-simply praying for the rain

I heard them whisper the stories
About the screams they ignored
That came from other side of the door
Of the house you grew up in:

So tell me,
was it your husband or your father
That frightened you more?
(Because they never said...)

Your mother always told you that
Roses could never bloom in the desert-
But you ploughed in dusty soils anyway,
Hoping that love would grow on the pain
The rains had not washed away yet

It seems that the sun had willed itself
To burn down everything that you owned-
So with calloused and cracked hands
You dug deeper into the ground
In search of anything to put the fires out

I heard you lamenting for rain
In that dischorded voice of yours;
But no matter how many tears you wept
Or however many prayers that you sent,
They were just never enough
To make flowers bud in the desert.

By: Lulwama K. Mulalu

When I die,
Maybe I dont want
People to move on.
Maybe I dont want
People to get on with their lives.
Everyone always says that.
Carry on, keep going.
Dont mourn me.
While I hear excerpts of
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
Maybe I want you to do just that.
For a grave is not where I belong.
It's not with you.
My light is extinguished.
It will no longer brighten your day,
Or make you smile,
Comfort you when you cry,
Or listen to your problems.
I want you to miss that.
So many moments,
Of deathbed, selfless, nobility.
But remmeber it's me on the deathbed.
I cant tell you it will be alright.
It wont.
I'm not coming home.
The dash on my headstone
May be filled with many things,
But it will always be incomplete.
There will always be more.
More that I want to see.
More that I want to do.
More that I want to say.
More that I want to hear.
The dash on my headstone,
Will always beg to be filled with more,
For there is never a good time to die.
I want you to cry for that.
I want you to dwell on it.
Think about it
Eat it.
Breathe it.
Sleep it.
Live it.
I'm just speaking the truth.
For the truth is no one wants to be forgotten.
No one wants to be a fleeting moment,
A satellite passing over head,
In a starry night sky.
Soaring into view,
and then fading into Obscurity.
I'd like to think my existence
Means so much to others
That, like me, it cannot be lived without.
That it's worth mourning infinitely.
Call it selfish, call it pretentious.
Call it what you will.
But remember it's me,
upon This deathbed.
My death is a mere part
Of your story.
But it's the end of mine.
My death is a passing note
In the harmonious, sometimes
Dischorded symphony of your life
But for me, it's the final note,
Of another incomplete
Requiem hymn.
When I die,
You will move on,
You will continue, as I cease.
You will find a way to live.
Your tears will dry,
And your sobs will quiet,
And like my death,
This is something
I will have to learn to accept.
I have the rest of my life.