Dear friend, look what they are making me do.

The whispers tell me, Of how good you are to me, They say that I should feel the butterflies, Smile when we touch, Their excitement of you excites me, They think of you as I wait on you, With rosy cheeks and a glowing heart, It’s the whispers who said, That’s how a friend should make you feel.

It’s the whispers that lied to me, That our crazy chats are rare, They envy our closer ,great friends they say, Bad whispers, now I can’t tell you of you, That am falling for you , You who belongs to another, But only the whispers know, Is it not their fault?

The whispers know you are scared, Of the sparks you feel, Of what I may make you feel, But we’ll never hurt the other, I won’t let you, I won’t let the whispers, And you’ll never know of my butterflies, Of how deep am falling.

The whispers say, I should tell you of them, When we hold hands, As you tell me of your troubles, As I tell you of my fears, You’ll say, “I’ll never leave you friend, ” As I say, ” I got you, oh sweet friend ” I may tell you of the whispers, What they are making me do, It is the whispers I blame, For this beautiful kind of pain.

Mary.

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The dark queen. ðŸ‘‘

They say am a little Gothic,

Strange you see,

That I have a cold stare,

My eyes see through them,

Through their veins and their bad blood,

A queen whose crown is Embroided with dry bones,

She that feeds of darkness,

They know I sit on a ice cold throne,

That I am a cold stone,

Fearless,

But hey,

What’s so Gothic about the smell of their fears,

A stench of their trembling souls,

A taste of their Sour tears?

What’s so Gothic about my love for black,

Of the dead feelings that I harbour,

Of the cold and the dirty mind,

My addiction for the dreadful beats,

So what that I dance in the tombstones and arise when the dark arises,

That I outrun the monsters and dance better than the spirits,

That they tremble at the sight of me, her awesomeness,

That I can walk when all fall,

It ain’t my fault that darkness is afraid of me?

Story of a day with a friend

FRIEND. Story of a day with one with the eyes of a dove, Of a day we held each others hands and told of stories, Stories of friends drowned by the same river, I felt your pain as you told of her that broke your heart, I saw the anger when I told of he that lied to me, I said I didn’t wanna fight it alone anymore, You said you were breaking down, I cried that I needed a home in someone, You screamed out your desire to reach out to someone, I laughed for being silly and worrying much, You laughed of the texts I send him in my desperate times, We screamed of how we hated them, Of how we were to let go, we then laughed for it was a lie, I said I would find you in the dark, You said I wasn’t alone anymore, With a promise to not give up on each other, We knew we had found friends in each other, A home for our Lost souls. You said I did over think most times, So I did, What if it was just you and me, Would we get hurt, lose each other? Would we break each other, we of good hearts? Would we hate each other like we did them? We that understood the pain of yearning for a touch of the stars so high? We that knew not to break but to create. Or did we make better friends than we did anything else? A story of a day with one whose lips are like lilies. Story of a day with a friend finer than any gold, One with a heart so golden, and enchanting presence. one I would never lose. A friend.

Stranger 

It was a stranger that left a mark,

This one we bled from the same scars,

His tears like mine had dried up,

Two lost children of the world,

And in my dark cold nights,

My reminisce was of his warm touch,

Deep breathes and the deep stare, 

We swam and tasted of the sweet waters,

The waves and the wind become our muse,

We made music from the sound of our dark hearts,

The good souls turned cold become beautiful master piece,
This stranger, 

He was a god and my dreams were of a goddess,

Its in the night that i felt alive,

I danced with his ghost

Played with his shadow,

I kissed his vapour,  

If only to forget my pain, 

To see one like me, to know i lived in another,
The dream of a stranger that i knew,

He that our thoughts weren’t mutual,

Busting my bubbles, crushing my castle,

I shed tears for this my beloved, 

Beloved do you know of a pain ,

Of one that was never yours?
It was a stranger that left a mark,

I dream of his cuddles if only to comfort,

A heart that lost which  it never had.

OH BLEEDING HEART !!!

Heart, 

How much more hurt?

How many more times do i sow you back,

And tear up after a broken luck? 
Heart,

If i am to run, run with me,

Don’t  be smart, work with me,

Ain’t  you done breaking ? 

Ain’t  you done bleeding ?
Heart,

Strongest of all organs,

Oh mother of my feelings,

Oh lover of all,

 Over and over  disappointed,

But forever loving,
Heart, 

Look beyond the sweethearts,

But be one sweet heart,

Hey keeper of my pain,

Do we love but in vain? 
Heart,

Dance on fire no more,

Sing songs of freedom, 

Chant not of love,

For are we not done counting stars,

Dreaming of a dead paradise 

Oh heart,

Lover of my being? 

 

Dead alive.

Death

Pushed to an early end,

Eaten esteem,

Swallowed pride,

Crushed faith,

Disappointed soul,

Death 

Of one in his hope,

Trusted too much,

Gave too much,

Fell, crushing much,

On his self,

Death

Of a once  hero, 

Of Gone glory,

Battered fame,

Lifted shame,

Zombie,

Death

Of a living warrior,

Forgotten savior,

All alone,

Cold as stone,

In sorrow,

Alone.

Lost love

 I share my desire to you,

You who is bold enough to tell of his feelings, 

How i wish it could be you, 

It is she in the mirror who doesn’t want to let go,

But i want to share my feelings with you,

But how do i when i am so de

ep in the wrong one,
The day i met you, 

You say a simple hi took your breathe away, 

But you, so warm, yours charmed my heart,

Laughing at your every word, i become lighter,

Face brighter,  the thought of you, keeping me at bay,

On and on waiting for our talks, a charming stranger couldn’t let my heart be.
One who knows what to say, tell me am i wasting time in the wrong situation? 

How good you fill my world, i feel kinda way,

Could you just be here? Say i deserve better,

And his arms on thy hands will feel wrong.
If i am to say,

Instead of she in the mirror taking control,

It would be, i love every second with you,

I am your little miss perfect, it feels good knowing you’d never let me down,

Why am i caught up in a web, entangled with a demon,

With a dream to be free, come rescue me, 

Then it wouldn’t be love in the wrong place.

JUST A WOMAN.

I watched as they worked, so hard, hoping to make a difference, the children at their backs, task after another, they cared not of the scorching sun, of walking barefoot, of breaking down while at it they had to work. if only someone understood their pain, the agony they had to go through, most of them were married, for love you think? No, but to them they had no choice, they had to think of their children, of what the society dictated, behind closed doors they whispered, talking of the useless men they had married, of how tired they were of the beatings, of not being appreciated, of how hard they worked to please those men, but yet, they were just women, to cook, to care, to give birth, to beat, to use, to amuse, just women. 

  A week since I arrived to this beautiful valley, I had finally agreed to visit my friend, I taught her of the city life, its time I learn how to winnow, she said. She had warned me of how ignorant the people were around here, of enlightenment, of change, moving forward I called. After arrival, we had taken a walk through maize plantations, all excited for this place was a wonder, the shock I had on meeting Sarah, soaked in tears, the twelve year old had blood all over her dress, she couldn’t move, it took time to convince her to tell us what had happened to her, how could a leader in a society molest one in his care? I understood not  how the father of such a poor soul would get goats as a payment for such damage, her poor mother was beaten for threatening to go to the police, Sarah had sought solitude at the maize plantation, good thing we arrived when we did, we took her to hospital, on speaking about it, my friend was condemned for talking back to her elders, for trying to change the way things were, the city life had corrupted her they said and her prostitute friend had come to infect the valley of her rotten ways, what parent allowed a girl to the city, she is just a woman, they said. 

 What a village, being a woman was a weakness one is born with, a man was a man depending on how many boys he had, I heard of a woman who was forced to another man to bear a son for the man she married, she did give him a son and yet the problem was her? Poor species, wife inheritance was bad enough, but the way women were treated around here, it was one to cry for, they were no better than a donkey, to work and be fed on grass. They would work to feed their children, and their drunken husbands, this is after washing off the urine and dirt they brought home, after a drinking spree, bragging on how they put their women to their place. Forcing themselves on their women was a way of things, ordering for food with no appreciation, of the burnt fingers, of the Smokey smelling hair, of the cracked feet, of the poor wrinkled face, of the abuse they took, the threat to be taken back to their mamas house, of the pain they endured for just being women.  

Its no wonder they cooked with the Smoke filled  firewood, to cry when no one noticed, yet if they spoke of gender violence, of how victimized they felt, of how they needed just a little appreciation, of how they wanted to be heard, of how they would rejoice in seeing their daughters educated and not married off, but then would that not make them hard headed? So I watched them work, scared of what fate awaited them, they had to survive a day, then another, I feared for them, for their children, feared for my friend, how could she bring up  children here? The female ones would grow feeling unworthy with the male feeling superior and inconsiderate, should I say with no respect? Not even to their mothers. I looked at them, all calling for help but with their eyes, then I missed my father, my brothers missed the men I saw in the city carrying flowers for their women, I missed the men that knew how to respect women, the men who supported their women to push harder in their career, the men who cooked for their ladies just to appreciate them, I missed those men I saw applauding when a woman won, I missed the men that saw progress, victory, that saw power when a woman stood. I missed the men that saw no gender; to them it was not just a woman.

  Just a woman, one that gave life to a man, a pure soul full of love, but to the not enlightened, she is a slave, an item to be owned. One to be possessed, adored, criticized, played with, a voiceless figure, to applause in silence when a man achieves, but did you know she can be more, more than just a woman?

The story of a crying soul.

She looked down from the place she was standing, a place of salvation she said, her life had been full of thorny roses, they had pricked her fingers but the blood drop created no snow, it was a jump from fire to fire with no cooling fan, there was no sign from God that every hardship she had endured was going to be over, she had let her hope and trust guide her all through trying not to let her fears rule her. She always knew a part of her was weaker and in doubt of what her purpose was, so today she had made her choice, a choice to forget everything and maybe experience the promised paradise, a chance to forget all her sorrows, all the pain and to give her eyes a chance to rest for had her tears not threatened to go extinct? She had waited for that light to shine bright if only for a moment, but darker and darker it got. One with no  story, no meaning, with just one choice she dressed on her best, went to her fantasy tower, at the top floor, spread her arms and even at the moment she wished for that light, eyes closed, she freed her heart, let go of her fears, up from the ground, flying to freedom. Not a voice to applause, to comfort, to warn her, she felt alone, like it had always been, but only now she had hope of a good place, a better mystery.  Pain had been her story; she was from a little village from the tribe of the people of journey that was what her mother had told her, for her tribes men had been known for walking long distances either for trade, search of water, or other errands. Her mother was a wise one, she had treated her and her siblings like queens and kings, her father was the drunken king, rich yes, but poor in morals, he only loved his wife and cared not for the bastards she had brought home, that is what he said. The old man had kept telling her how useless she was, she had ignored him at first but with time, she began to believe in his words, when her mama died, her world was blown apart, her pain more real than it had ever been. She wished it would stop, she wished the sun would shine brighter or just finally set, but no, only her moon grew darker and her nights longer, it was not stopping.  She always had been empty, with a longing for someone to fill the emptiness she felt, year after year she had endured her father’s abuse and the society demoralizing her, killing her confidence, a part of her knew she could do better, but how could she start? she had no dreams of a paradise, the days she had gone without food, the days she felt not pretty, the days she had slept out on the cold for fear of her father abusing her, the pain she had to endure so that her siblings would live a better life, all her pain and sorrows had taken all the joy she saw in her dreams, she only saw of monsters and demons. She, who was full of wonders, if only someone looked at her and saw that face, the face that knew of love, compassion, the face with the zeal to live, the face of victory, not the devastating desperate, disgusting face, not that ugly face.  so up she was to fly away from all the monsters and the demons that tormented her, to freedom, to songs of victory and comfort, to the arms of what awaited her, unknown to her was a prince watching, he who the terror of this world had shaken the good out of him, he that the world had given two faces, one to lure and one to devour, he had seen one like him but  in the verge of giving it up, this was a familiar occurrence to him, he had to punish or help this helpless girl, the kind that he knew needed help, so help he was to offer. He noticed the tears she wasn’t aware of, he saw the pain, with a sneer in his heart, disgust in his head, hate settled at the bottom of his stomach, excitement in his eyes and compassion in his face, he stretched his arms to save this tormented bird as she was about to fly, right on time, he pulled her to his arms and with a calm voice, he said,” there now, it’s all over.”  A voice, it is all what the crying soul thought of. A savior. Not aware of the awaiting terror.

Tear drop

So i couldn’t write, for my mind was blur and my eyes were blinded by tears,

My words were at pain for it was their desire that was met by a cold stare,

It is of good they spoke, of love they cried but silence they got. The heart was at limbo, the place it went not to feel, its habit to feel so deep and get disappointed yet keep feeling, weaker than the spirit wanted, for the spirit was filled with the hope that all was well, but then the body was in doubt, was it not that over and over it had journeyed through the same path, but then hope.

So my hands couldn’t write, for the mind was scared of expressing that which it felt, for it is by the words written that most desired to stay far from the body, for this vessel spoke of its mind, few would stand that.  The thoughts were mistaken at times, seeing smoke where there ain’t no fire but the inner self knew of some truth, for is it not words and actions that go together? 

The unspoken words louder than the dead actions, but of hope my spirit was. Determined to not let go to hold on a little longer, if only for a change, so my spirit hoping for the butterflies to rekindle, for the fire to not die, for a prove that it was cared for. For action, it was too early to give up, but then the  crocodile has never gone to a fight without its tail. This  journey you just cannot tour alone.

So it was the hope when am tired, when torn and beaten, when in doubt, when wrong, when my feet wouldn’t walk no more, when i feel like a burden, when i feel like am being let go, the voice would always be there to say, ” i care, i love, am to pick you up, lets keep moving,  we are gonna be fine, above all am not letting you go.”

So i couldn’t write, but a friend said, “Make it an inspection and instead of expressing with tears, convert em to words” so i wrote a parable. I hid it for one who understood, to say of a desire, apologetic of a me that was undesirable, but aware of the me worthy of a queens treat. I wrote with the desire to know, just what the heart felt, for i couldn’t  write.