Red

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Red.

The colour of hands drowning in wrath of own doing

Beautiful glass, clear thoughts, desirable glass, fragile hands

New wine in old wine skins

A toddler with a new ferrari

Broken glass,shattered heart, blood stained glass, teary eyes

Red.

The colour of deception and temptation

The apple in the midst of oranges

The bite of knowledge of selfishness

Snow white fate without the kiss

Pleasure cum deep destruction

Red.

The voice of torment

Sound of silent wails

The pointing of fingers

The setting of the sun

Roses set ablaze

Red.

Free Life

Due Death

Paid Cross

New Life

No Death

Red.

Freedom

 

 

 

 

Stare

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That glance translated into a stare

Deep into my brown around white

To speak I couldn’t dare

For words not said are felt

Reflection upon reflection

Our eyes become one

A magnetic connection

My heart was won

The earth stopped spinning

Hearts stopped beating

I faced death with no fear

For I found love here

In his eyes,

In his eyes was a reflection of three

me reflecting him,reflecting me,reflecting God

That glance translated into a stare

And I found hope right there.

 

 

 

Trust part 1

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Trust,
a word that was omitted from her dictionary
years before she could know the words that made it up
that’s true and us.Its a truth between two people,
us that is safe because truth was safe and i wasn’t.
At least not in my own home.
My love language is touch,
and i assumed that the way he touched my toddler body was a sign of love.
He started with a tickle
and then why wont you sit on my lap,
before i had a chance to say no,
I’m lifted to his thighs with a hill raising up that pressed upon my back
and i never even understood what that was because i knew down there had no big bump,
i didn’t even know the difference of boys and girls
except that they were dirty and girls were clean.
I thought he loved me when he insisted on going shopping with me
then he’d feel on my legs and rummage through it as though searching for the key to his insecurities.
I thought he loved me when he came to my room at 7years old to sing me a lullaby
as he patted the undeveloped yet chest area
and many times spooned behind me to give me warmth on a cold night.
I thought it was a fathers love when at 12 years old he stayed home with me when i was sick
and fed me with soup and went ahead to try feed me his flesh.
He said it would make me better and that i shouldn’t tell mum
like he always said but i was too shaken to heed it,
i was too naive to question it,
too clean minded to not see rape even when it was staring me right in the eye.
Class 6 i learned reproduction and sexual organs and found out
that the songs we sung at singing games in nursery and class 1 saying,
“these are my private parts private parts private parts,
these are my private parts and nobody should touch them”
now it all made sense,
this man was touching me how he should only touch my mum,and i was too young for this.
I call mum,
i tell her,
she gets mad
and hates me,
she tells me,
I’m the reason he is never in bed with her,
she tells me I am the problem in the family,
she calls me jezebel and seducer and all types of prestigious insults
then packs her bags and leaves me with the one who was my abuser…
¬†You’d think one who carried you for 9months would care enough to feel your pain
but she just saw my beauty and wondered if he preferred me to her…
she didn’t see abuse,she saw competition.mama!!really?
You might as well have aborted me that day you realized you were expectant with a baby of a man who didn’t expect to make you his wife.
This isn’t my personal story,I speak for the voiceless.
Watch out for part 2.

Pick me

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Eyes have never been as fixated to a bottle like this moment,

sets of pupils focused on this object like they’re in a classroom,

each thinking they have the power to control the movement of this bottle,

secretly hoping that super powers were real

and they could determine the stop of this things motion.

Slow motion speed as if its trying to juxtapose

the fast beat of hearts pounding fast

tryna avoid revealing their past,

so they stare blankly like zombies at this bottles dancing in circles around the table,

clockwise movement they watch,

the bottle enjoys the fame,

and graciously slows down its dance,

the bottle gets tired and goes to a confusing halt,

Lisa,Mark,Njeri and finally it picks me,

to the left of Njeri,

all eyes shift from bottle to me and they raise their voices,

“Corinne!Truth or dare?”

My Words

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My words are not just chit chat letters voiced,not flip flap messages,my tongues tip isn’t a tap flowing mere vowels and consonants for you to snap your fingers to.
I’m tired of this stage,
it was never to be show and tell,so we shorten tales that were never told to us by our grandmothers by the fire in village,or in the ladybug storybooks or Disney tales.
This stage,we tell tales that many hearts conceal,minds never reveal,hands always will seal,mouths dare not call real,emotions pretend not to feel,they have no appeal,but your hearts ain’t steel,still many steal their healing away,
but this stage,bears the cross of every poet that lays down their life or the life of their loved ones on this stage.
My words today are that letter that is put in a bottle and thrown into the sea,
today please be my waves because i can not hold these words in any longer.
Theres too much garbage in the air waves so today I transmit a message and i want you to be my waves today and spread it out.
There’s a hole in my heart,a deaf generation that has ears but refuses to hear,this hole,this rabbit hole,and i cant go through it no Alice in wonderland,cz there are no wonders in my words today but i wonder how this land got infested by scales on peoples eyes.
Our backs have gotten curved from sweeping our life problems under the rug daily,hoping they would just disappear.
We refuse to listen when we are told we can rise above because we are eagles but we have such a chicken mentality and call these optimists crazy.
When things fall apart like predicted by Chinua Achebe where will you be a part of?those that drown their sorrows in the blue moon and let Captain Morgan steer their direction or those that try to forget,take it out on another,or come listen to a girl or guy on a stage that will invoke thinking and change.
I find home and peace on this stage,this microphone is my communication with my G.O.D,
so every time i open my voice box,i spit truth that will be hard to swallow
and i am sorry that i cant afford water to water down my gospel,my good news.
This words are better of raw,cz they ready raw sushi so i don’t have to go through trouble to cook it up cz even God knows i am not a fan of cooking.
These words are power but so are the silent pauses,the moment between the breath and sound waves and the microphone.Feed on this sound like scavenger vultures.
Watch me mix my vibrations in my voice box,my heart,mind and soul and spin these written poetry into air and let it raise up and became clouds lets make it rain in this stage,your snaps and claps like thunderstorms.
You probably noticed i don’t have that many punchlines,see i was never taught to be a boxer,never boxed in my words so i couldn’t throw a punch.
But this poem i pray is on heat coz after the rain i want to set this stage on fire and burn every perception that these words wouldn’t take us far,that poetry was a side job to a real life,that we are only worth a pen paper and mic to talk,well talk is cheap like a matchstick but like it it can ignite a fire so drastic.
This stage carries cranes that move things,confidence that takes us to our peak,faith that moves mountains in around 3-4 minutes and we make you always have your eyes on us,every tick tock tick tock tick tock of you listening to me is an opportunity to give you something to think about.
Now you’re overthinking,why so serious?
On this stage I praise my struggle because it makes our testimony worth it.
Well now all the fight in my breath has disappeared and left.So i leave you with these words.