You get used to being here.
Small stains mark where you bruised the house
with gate-crashing day-dreams
you can see them transpiring through wood and brick
through the dry walls and the worn carpets.
It’s a kind of habituation
It’s a kind of a life
and you walk in it, over it
and through it
with closed and open eyes.
What you see or don’t see
it’s still all there
coming through from the past.
The future also comes through,
tomorrow has already painted your next steps,
your hand prints, they are
all in place waiting to be nailed down.
You can see millions of cells being cast down
upon the floor, the brush leaning against the wall
that you will use to keep one day ahead
so you can look back and judge for yourself
if you also have come through.
Categories:
gate crashing, poetry,
Form: Free verse
K-illjoy won't spoil your pleasure,
E-arly June twenty-eighth;
I-t's the mirth deep inside
T-rying to stop the
H-ate.
S-poilsport won't ruin your fun,
U-sing not gate-crashing;
L-ove and harmony found
A-re what the day will bring.
P-arty pooper won't insist
A-nything that can destroy;
S-tart the celebration, you will find no killjoy.
Categories:
gate crashing, birthday,
Form: Acrostic
Soft the caress within love's tender kiss and times perfumed gaze..
Gathering centuries as bouquets; beauty in petals to mark this page
Splashed aneath colours atop their still frames; thresholds she waits
Ushering her dreams beyound the gate; crashing waves and a heart
Engraved these moments standing quiet no more; destiny's shores
Wiping tears from her eyes shall not they cry; joy, yet never sorrow
Ever again love's beautiful ballerina, whom bled one summers day ?
Leaving this lifes stage for a much better place; soft the lights caress
Perfumed these still frames; gathering her silent centuries in bouquets.
Categories:
gate crashing, angel, art, autumn, love,
Form: I do not know?
Half your time spent
stuffing bags in the ceiling
but the face of corruption
is surprisingly appealing
I remember asking;
Who has the keys to this
cash gate
The one the finances the
cashier and his fat date
the one that keeps the
orphan clinging to his
round plate
for him days are a blur, he
can’t remember when he
last ate
so who really has the
keys, the keys to this
cash gate
you think you know who,
are you sure?
This same one that
separates the rich and the
poor
I saw a crowd the other
day;
They were stuffed in a
lorry
Ecstatic and jolly
I heard them scream
Amayi.
and I thought slowly;
who had they seen
Madonna perhaps or
Angelina Jolie
Come to rescue another
orphan, they deem is
treated poorly.
Then I thought again,
Why do they refer to her
as Amayi,
Why didn’t they refer to
the late one as Abambo.
Declining Malawian
mindsets are doing
nothing but falling
and Frankly its appalling.
Categories:
gate crashing, corruption
Form: ABC
Soft the caress within love's tender kiss and times perfumed gaze..
Gathering centuries as bouquets; beauty in petals to mark this page
Splashed aneath colours atop their still frames; thresholds she waits
Ushering her dreams beyound the gate; crashing waves and a heart
Engraved these moments standing quiet no more; destiny's shores
Wiping tears from her eyes shall not they cry; joy, yet never sorrow
Ever again love's beautiful ballerina, whom bled one summers day ?
Leaving this lifes stage for a much better place; soft the lights caress
Perfumed these still frames; gathering her silent centuries in bouquets.
Categories:
gate crashing, love,
Form: I do not know?
He's on his own.
Since his dad adlib
Eeriely to his mom.
He asphyxiated by the
Aura of heart gashing.
His garland galed with fury
While gate crashing.
He ordained ****** to
Chicks wheezing whiffs.
Peering number one
On weed puffs.
People descending
Genealogicaly.
His philosophy lies
Physicaly.
He lives a fast life like
A small lump of a metal
Shot from a riffle.
His spitting image, is
Spick and span through
The naked eyes of people.
Now he whim a gaiety living.
He wish he never had this life.
Categories:
gate crashing, growing up
Form: Ballad
Like the gate-crashing sun
In a shower of rain
They walk into the arena
With forefingers engaged with the trigger;
Bori rises in the shower of blood
In the early hours of January Fourth:
Guns play us the drum of death
And we danced with the wisp of leaves.
Categories:
gate crashing, angst,
Form: Free verse