Words of an old wise monk.
Be wary of the man who rides a white horse.
He hits harder than the law, son.
Words of an old wise monk.
Abe sinned like all other men.
He hatched a plan behind her hazel eyes.
Cain, you tell my brother’s reefer?
I’m engaged in a psychedelic war.
A lewd sip double they called it.
My double edged roll is now blunt.
Life seeps from the annual annals of this anarchy full year.
Walking dark paths trodden by the voices in the shadows.
The soul sucking dementia of the valleys of death where dry bones rise to meet the gnashing teeth of humour-less mongrels.
Lost in the strange world where black lives don’t matter even to the black brothers.
The natives are walking hand in hand with the grim reaper.
They have no reservations to take away what does not belong to them.
Old age comes for our fathers, bullets for our brothers and corruption for our children.
Depression is the new elixir for the mothers and sisters because alcohol loses it’s hold in the morning.
Blood flows thin down the superhighways of unmarked speed bumps.
And we smile.
That smile when the joke is too morbid and the tear-wells are dry.
Emerge from the smoke rising from the smog on that darn hill.
Happiness is Rosberg and it has chosen to retire from you.
Your mind..minds are having a battle.
All claustrophobic in the hope that a panacea will be able to drill down through the firewalls of loneliness.
Emerge with immortal thoughts of times that were, joy unbridled.
But you know it won’t come to pass.
Because from the outside.
Everyone can see you look caged because you dared the devil of your government and they now rule with an iron fist.
The universe has crushed your ego and your purported heroism is now a memory in the mind of a villain.
You don’t believe in defenders anymore and your avengers are either dead or on vacation.
The year has pushed a shaft through your core and you are the next course at Hell’s kitchen.
Your rhymes have taken a walk to the dark side and now they walk back with the onomatopoeic footsteps of a mindless punisher.
You count down the days.
To what could be the end or the first taste of blood on your lips from the first blow.
You hope against hope.
That all will be well.
But the killers are marking your grave because Hope just committed suicide.
TheDivineBandit™ – Hoping 2016 ends soon
I am a millennial—I can’t deny it. I was born in 1992, right in the middle of the millennial generation range. I grew up in a world where children were showered with praise and everyone was a winner on Sports Day. I’ve lived in the shadow of September 11th and repeated recessions. Oh, and I love Pokémon Go, hash tags, and taking a good selfie! If you ask the people around me, they’ll probably tell you I have some of the stereotypical attributes of a millennial: entitled; easily sidetracked by technology; and wanting a better balance between my work life, my family life, and my hobbies.
Pew Research even has a quiz called “How millennial are you?” that shows where you fit on the scale and how you compare with others in your generation. I’m not entirely sure how scientific this is, but I scored a whopping…
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When I wake up at 3 am and sit up to scribble a nightmare inspired poem,
The neighbours think I’m just a troubled person.
Like cravings, the need to put these words down floods my mind.
It is all I can think of at the moment.
It is 20 minutes to 5 pm, the time when I hurriedly leave the office.
Because I know, there’s a one hour workout session
That is quickly followed by a light meal, a look at the telly, some reading
And sometimes just directly take a 9 hour nap.
I am writing this as Eric Wainaina blares in my ears.
I have never really listened to music at low volumes.
I have to hear each instrument used
Whatever drum thump that everyone would choose to ignore.
Maybe that is why I am not a fan of music videos.
But here I am typing with tears welling up in my eyes.
I keep breathing in and fluttering my eyelashes to keep the tears away.
All this because Eric dares start his Twisty song with:
“Hii ngoma ni ya babangu”
Because to date the words dad, father, baba, papa cause the deepest of emotions to come crawling to the surface.
And sometimes I hate myself for it.
Sometimes I just let the tears flow.
Because it really is cathartic.
It does not really heal but I feel more able to deal once that bitter bubble is burst.
It is the most childish of ways, but my hair to me is the legacy of what he was in his youth.
And how when I live my dream I can still see myself in him.
Funny thought is that I really wanted to play football professionally and did not.
But he did.
Talk of your parent living your dream on your behalf.
But the best part is how much more protected I feel.
He is watching every single day.
I feel shame when what I do does not make him smile.
But it does not beat the sense of achievement when you manage to do something he really wanted you to do.
I just type away without even editing.
That will come later.
And truly I have no idea why this piece is in a poetic kind of stanza.
Maybe it is because I am used to writing like this.
My friends say I type texts in a staccato manner.
That is mostly because the thoughts run over each other sometimes.
Like a bunch of seeds looking for the one egg to fertilize
I can feel my breath becoming lighter now.
As the clock strikes 4:55, I find myself asking why I even started typing this.
Maybe it was just because of that one song
Maybe because I can hear his song
Maybe because I am his song
As he has been mine before
I don’t know.
All I know is this tune keeps playing.
And I am yet to find my harmony.
Why all these feels today you dare ask?
Because of the below:
Life as it is, comes in phases.
The good, bad, ugly and beautiful keep recurring in different forms.
Misimu-Swahili for seasons – is everything making up the season’s in the life of Gufy as a Performance Poet.
A collection of 5 spoken word poems cutting through basic scopes of life. From politics, love, religion, childhood dreams, death and God.
This collection aims to re-live the thoughts and beliefs of a young man in search of an end game.
Misimu is Gufy,
Misimu is Us,
Misimu is Poetry we relate to.
It’s 4:21, blazed it and got got.
Enjoying the ecstasy at Newport.
Puff, puff, passed out.
This week started on a very weird, confused and sad note. And no, despite the G.R.R.M kind of year and especially July, nobody died. At least not in real life. The cause of all this grief and anguish is because 2 years later, I finally watched the last 4 episodes of HIMYM. And being the eccentric person I am. I keep replaying the scenes in my mind, the times that this program took me out of the doldrums promised me something fresh, something real does happen in life etc.
I know I’m so very late to be commenting on this. But I feel lost. And I probably will for a while. You don’t rip my emotions apart like this and then expect me to recover. Of course this makes a good point on how good the program was. But still….
- You made me root for Robin and Ted to be together at first. We all love Robin and man is that woman beautiful. It also did not help that my best friend insists on calling me Tedward. Yeah, I know, my name is not even Edward.
- Then you made me understand the love between 2 scarred people. Barney and Robin were perfect for each other. Notwithstanding that, you still made me watch a whole season based on their wedding. And 10 minutes later they were divorced?? I don’t care if you had a caption reading 3 years later!! That hurt my freaking aorta!
- Finally! Finally! You show us the mother. How the gang meets the mother. How awesome she is. The yellow umbrella, the ankle,the bass guitar, the lighthouse, the Farhampton inn and that cute dracula smile..chaiiii!! Sob. And then what do you do?? Wait for it…..
- You kill her!! Murdering writers! And you kill her via Ted’s words. No awesome last minutes shown. No grieving by Ted. Shake your damn heads dammit!
- Then 52 year old Ted who can’t actually run from a waiter steals the Blue French horn. For the 3rd time? And we are to believe now that Robin is free and done travelling and Ted got his dream wife and kids and is now again “free”, all’s well that ends well?
It does not. If I wasn’t so old. I’d say you ruined my childhood. 🙂 But hey, I had good enough practice. This happened in another warped mentality ending on Season 5 of Chuck. Where the writers chose to rob Sarah of her memories with Chuck. In essence saying Sarah could not remember what we had watched since Season 1. There’s the little suggestion that she will remember. But in a world where I have to watch Game of Thrones, Gotham and Daredevil. Give me a happy ending! Errm, I mean give me an ending with a bit of jolly good positive vibes in it. The world already has too much darkness in it and I need a little bit of the most rare of sparks I can find to light it up every morning.
The writers tried to calm the fans down by redoing an alternate ending but hey no take backs for what has already become imprinted in my mind. Teddy Westside got the raw end of that deal. Or did he? I don’t know. And now I feel a slight need to continue with the Haikus coming on. See what you have done?!!
Vengeance shall not be mine! Haaaaaaaavvvvveeeeee you met Ed??