Misfit poetry

They say depression is allergic to a busy mind,
but my boys know of how depressed minds are allergic to being busy
In an era where everyone says hard is broken by harder,
they choose to be hard ’cause they break too early
They choose to be hard so that nobody can mind the business of a broken person,
so that nobody can find pride breaking something that is already broken.
And everyday they look at life and say,
‘we are just broken people’,
Sad people and all these you bring… are just to tell me you little.
I am to choose my battles

~Script Amwanzo/ Tamsus~

Lost

Most of the time, most days,
I feel nothing.
I don’t feel anything, it is so boring
I wake up and think,
Again, really? I have to do this again?
And what I really don’t understand is how come everyone else isn’t screaming with,
with boredom too
and I try to find ways to make myself feel something.
More, and more, and more,
But it doesn’t make any difference
No matter what I do, I don’t feel anything
I hurt myself; it doesn’t hurt
I buy what I want; I don’t want it
I do what I like; I don’t like it.
I’m just so bored….

~Script Amwanzo/ Tamsus~

When they ask me of my favorite art piece,
I sulk but smile and boast of my failures instead.
I do anything to create a detour to wrap up the conversation
‘What’s the most expensive art piece in your collection?’
I don’t like this question either
It’s nostalgic;
Leaves me empty inside just to be specific,
That I gave my heart to her only to have her on a piece of paper is already depressing
though she is my 8th wonder of the world.
There should be contemporary documents on her beauty,
believe me for my eyes cannot pass as cons
I’d have her replace Abraham Lincoln on the hundred dollar bill
Anyway, that’s only a lucid illusion.
Her potrait graces my wall
Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is no match for my Bambi
I bet she’d have the Medici’s break their bank just to get her
I have guests fall in love at her marvel
Spell bound by her eyes and I don’t like it,
Spoiler alert!  I took it down
Reason one, I’m the jealous type
And two, lest one of my itchy-fingered friends should steal it.
They could’ve easened the burden of getting rid of it
which I’ve countlessly tried unsuccessfully though.
You see back then I was a boy drunken in love…

Yes, back then I was a boy drunken in love,
Results – a matyr of a religion called love.
I cling to her potrait hoping it to be a vine to save me
I cling to her potrait hoping I could use it as leverage to claim my heart back,
Maybe playing the joker will help reclaim my lost
She acted Peter, denying my association with her
That she not know of herself as Mary of Magdalena
True, the worst monsters are ones which we create
I’d long waited for the villain to become the hero of the story
To defeat this evil once and for all
I became exactly what I willed never to become,
In my streets we call them fuckboys, stray dogs with no dignity.
I’ve tried so hard to get rid of her
I burnt all my collection of her, a sin which I dare not ask for forgiveness
I once gave away a T-shirt to my friend who turned it into a face towel, I took it back for fear he’d turn it into a cumrag
Her face was imprinted on it.
Science failed me,
Drinking didn’t aid with memory loss
I try to forget but in vain
’cause deep down I know I’d burn myself just for her to see light
I remember her birthday like July 4th
Hers is 2 days later to be exact :
Somebody tell her Happy Birthday Bambi,
How I remember that date I don’t know
Maybe my plan of burning bridges and ships was a fools errand after all
Her potrait is like an only floating wooden plank of a shipwreck, and I surviving to see the aftermath of our storm
A ‘move on’ plan botched by my own unwillingness to let go
My incapability to love another
I hate myself enough but I hate her because I still love her
She claims her phone was jinxed and I blame google contacts restoration program for linking us again
What karma has in-store for us,
I want none of its fuckery, seriously! Again???
The Bambi wall hanging is the first and only remaining
A relic of drunken love.

~Misfit ~

She told me to choose between her and my best friend,
I raised my eyebrows and dismissed it as a bluff
but her tongue was so audacious to repeat itself,
My neck stiffened –
At least that prevented my head from decapitating itself.
Whoever said that if you looking for a partner it’s best to date your best friend,
I’m sorry, I can’t, ’cause I’m not gay.
Her motive I didn’t want to know and I never want to,
Yes I was her best friend,
Yes, she was my best friend
But I couldn’t do what she was asking of me,
A battle of supremacy and I had to pick a side :
My woman, or my wing man?
My lover, or my brother?
To love, or to the brocode?
I know jealousy as a disease, never thought it to be a cancer.
In a question of loyalty the answer lies in the dilemma
Finding yourself not favoured by the scales is what you call betrayal
I asked her ‘If I died for you, would you remain alive for me?’
Her reply ‘Do I need a reason to?’
She’d passed her own sentence,
I stood up and made for the door and held it for her
And that was how I reduced her to a memory in my life.
Half drunk, I told my bottle of whiskey,
“women are like matatus, if you miss one you’ll always get another.”
I could always get another bride,
but not just anyone could be my best man.

~Misfit

Nights are meant for rest
Often times the rap tap ta rain against 
the ironsheets provided a soothing lullaby,
Breathing in the smell of the dark
rich fertile soils
So she’d pull the sheets over her head,
Seal her lips with a smile and hope morning comes.
But then there are those nights
she’d spent over thinking
The downpour like drumbeats
overtaking her heartbeats
Instead of the moonlight beaming through,
Lightning flashes through her window
If only it could Illuminate a section of her heart,
She wouldn’t have to exorcise her shades to find the switch
So she closes her eyes and hopes
She makes it to morning.
Slave of hope it is.

~Imperfections ~

“I NEED help”
One of the vocabulary I can’t get along with,
A gentle tap on my shoulder reminds me of the tea in my hands running cold from my cold thoughts or the chilly morning weather?
‘you okay?’ goes a husky voice
Now I’m not a liar, just a girl with a guilty conscience
I just smiled back
Hoping it works cause I just flossed my teeth the other day so it should work.
Satisfied with my terrible flirting skills I crawl back to my shell and convince myself it’s my messed up mind that needs fixing and not my frozen heart
So I hold on longings that,,,
Maybe the untroubled joy eluding me now will one day melt my insecurities away
Just maybe…
But for now I admire the blue skies, the sunrise, feel the morning breeze
And imagine a home far beyond the sky.

~Imperfections ~

Smiling through the pain isn’t the bravest thing but the happiest self-satisfied feeling
They would say about not letting your old flame not burn you twice
They don’t understand the beauty that lies in the ashes,
Rising from the ashes
Some will call it addiction, obsession, possession, love, stupidity name it all
But there’s so much pleasure in pain
Being a slave of something, someone and finally being free at your own will.

Explains why born of a nurse I’d still not take aspirin for a headache
Or bedridden days of dysmenorrhea would make me feel the woman in me
To be in a dark, be sick, be hurt, be betrayed, be in pain
To feel it all
To be human, to be dependent
THANK GOD FOR PAIN

~Imperfections ~

This is for a generation raised by grandparents and absent parents,
This is for girls and boys blinded by life struggles,
such that their hands are stretched waiting to tap someone who will lead them.
This is for boys who are now men who’ve grown up without fathers and are now wondering,,,
How do we figure how to be a father figure???
This for that girl who thinks she’s not beautiful so she sells her body forgetting her body is beyond shillings.
This is for that woman, still jobless,
not because she’s not competent but because she refused to rise up in life by lying down.
This is for walls inside us, for fights that are not physical
This is not about Sundays,
This is about finding God in our Bibles everyday.
This is for me, this is for us, this is for who we are and not for who we choose to be.
I am young but too old to find satisfaction in fashion and complements when all I’m really looking for is something that completes me.

You see,,,
Some poets write on what they see,
Most of them are just facing aliens in their minds
Listen to their words carefully and you will see,
You will see how society has made casualties of wars they stood just to piece to see peace.
Listen to them keenly
and you will hear how society has turned them into mad men and women
who run around battling addictions with powerful words,
who chase down mental illness with ryhmes and rythms that demand freedom.
For most of us are not bound,
Not by opinions, but by the chains that make our minds tell us we are free.
So the next time you meet a poet,
be nice, be the right one, and when they open up, these rythms and ryhmes will start flowing with the beats of their hearts and they will dance with their minds free once more.

~Script Amwanzo (Tamsus)

Every boy desires to be like his father when they grow up
But what happens when we grow up and want nothing to do with them???
When all you see doesn’t please the man becoming,
And now you ask yourself,
‘what happened to when I grow up I want to be daddy? ‘
Because now you don’t wanna be like daddy,
The indecisive shadow of life on your path
The lacking of a father to believe in ’cause father Christmas too was just a hoax,
He never showed up except on TV.
The fear of becoming a snake for you’re born of a snake,
Many letters written to daddy never met the post office,
The thoughts were never going to turn into words on paper,
Some remained on the ink of a ball point pen
Some written in pencil were erased
Even my mouth could not post my mail of thoughts,
Maybe if we were android we could’ve communicated better,
I mean, my Bluetooth device would’ve always paired to yours ’cause I have my blood in your memory.
You see,,, victims become the snakes they loathed –
The fruits that fell right at the trees’ bossom,
While the survivors, well, they try not to be a copyright
The men who struggle to redefine the meaning of fatherhood
If my words hit home, then me and you same wozzap.
Victims and survivors are alike
Victims and survivors are not alike,
Our difference comes in on who reaches out to ‘our father who at in heaven’.

~Misfit poet~

I don’t like handshakes,
Unlike yours, my hands have a range of blisters,
The rough contours of my fingerprints
And halfway roach-bitten nails,
You call them ugly,
I call them remnants of a battle with anxiety,
Yes, this is a product of hard work
and I mean not mjengo or a farmhand,
I’ve done a good job at mutilating my body,
Cut myself as a boy
Now I’m a man but I still bleed myself just to redirect my thoughts,
Better physical pain than mental torture.
I’ve peeled off the skin of my palms
just to ascertain if my body could pass as human sacrifice,
I’ve drank my blood, sips warm and sweet,
Only then did my cup of suffering taste like fine wine,
I’ve pulled off the hair of my head
just to scream and hear myself cry for help,
I’ve seen her with whipmarks and not stretchmarks
Don’t pity her flawless skin is past tense,
She loves her scales anyway.
I’ve licked my tears and smacked my salty lips
just to quench the flaming bitterness within,
I’ve kissed a whole lot
just to suck out their pain
You could say that I’m a drain.
There’s a war in my head, and I’m losing
The voices are talking to me
Eloi! Eloi! Lamasabacthani
I write to exorcise them.

~Misfit poet~

I realised that you aren’t as happy
As I thought you were
As you thought you’d be
When you pushed me outta your life
And walked out of mine

Am happy to know
You’re as depressed as I am if not more
I don’t care how bad that makes me look
Am just glad am not suffering alone
And your mistakes are catching up with you

Am ecstatic you’re unhappy
Because finally you are going to realize what I was to you
And all I did for you
Putting my life on hold to make yours a success
I ceased to exist so you could live

I broke myself into pieces to mend your broken ones
Laid my life down to uplift yours
Lost my life trying to save yours
And that, even for you, wasn’t enough
I could’ve done better you said, you said

I hope you miss me like hell
And cry when you realize am no longer around
May it hurt and sting all over again
May you cry yourself to sleep,
I hope you stain and soak your pillow with tears
Willling your body to shut down and let you sleep
And that sleep won’t even come

I hope you drown in the pain
I pray it kills you

~Dark_poet 413~