2013 Bucket List

beautiful, the more i read such blogs, the more i realize it will be easy to sky dive, and learn how to say hello, thank you and good bye in 25 languages at 25. living can be such a wonderful experience..


Marriage, the poem


All That Chatter

Marriage is a delicate dance of give and take
It’s more than finding a suitable mate
It’s love
It’s friendship
It’s work
It’s silence
It’s talking
It’s thinking
It’s taking a walk
It’s not ridicule
It’s not selfish
It’s not all about you
It’s sharing
It’s laughing
It’s crying sometimes
It may create frustration
or anger
but it’s also forgiveness
Marriage is commitment
It’s prayer
It’s I really like you
It’s work
It’s play
It’s not just today
It’s a future
It’s them
It’s together
It’s worth it

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and you say i am a poet

Last night i did a very touchy piece at the writers workshop. I need to mention, this piece was inspired by a post i met on face book, a status rather, reading..”POETS ARE COOL”.I loved the compliment, but one of the comments said, and they are WEIRD and ooh i loved it even. But i was interested in the meaning of weird.  You see, i have been at this for years now, but people still ask me at all poetry shows if im there as AUDIENCE or as a POET especially in bigger events just because i dont wear natural print cloth, or rocking a natural hair trait they say.(I dont know if anyone has ever experienced it, especially as a female poet). But i have to say, its not what makes me A POET and im coool like that.


WE DO NOT EAT PENCILS, AND YES we dont hate wigs or artificial nails either..I too am human, i am a girl, and i have feelings..I am cool, and WEIRD too and i love it too..


I have tasted handfuls of salty tears and

Armfuls of smiles, begging me to keep dancing

To the melody of my words

I am many shadows of complexity,

trapped in a nervous soul hanging in there,

in here,

between these rib cages and my lungs

some where.. yearning, fighting,

Seeking, learning answers to your

Earthly concerns, etched painfully across my heart

And.. You say

I am a poet,

You think I hug trees,

and whisper to the skies chasing dreams,

 and sometimes you ask me

If I save lost butterflies too

Or bite my pencils or play piano

And sleep with books under my pillow

in that printed cloth and natural hair

Because I am a poet?

I evade, avoid and travel in lonesome feelings

Bottled beneath layers of my skin and

Each time I stand tall at the podium,

I feel my lungs compress, gathering like rain clouds

forcing sad truths through corners of my curled lips,

 that each time I breath these sighs and cries

They sound like beautiful melody

And you will be smiling,

Telling me I am a poet,


At times I need a hug, I need a hand shake

a kiss on the forehead and a bucket of flowers

because I am a girl,

 and I am human too but you

You said I am a poet.


So I escape the music of the soles of your feet coming home,

And I would tune into beats of my pens push,

dancing on flat paper, because here..

it feels safe, it feels real, it feels like home.

So you try to sentence me to the life

Of sentences because I live for paper

And you tell me to write about it because

You said I am a poet.


Don’t push me to write.

It wont speak to me, it wont hold me when I fall,

And i wont either

I would rather let you wipe of my tears,

smell the urgency of my dreams

And share a cup of coffee with me,

So don’t force me to write about stuff

When I tell you im hurting,

im brusing,

im aching..



beautiful tears

We were born crying before we knew time and feelings

because our tears are beautiful like sun rays, like the moon and the stars.

So they fall, like droplets of light soundlessly

staining our black skins with calamity, as they make way slowly, like a rainbow in the sun

or maybe you have never seen a black woman cry a pool of tears to her chest,

the way her tears rub roughly across her tears, staining remains of her untold stories to her black shinning face to recite stories of where she has been, the years before.

How she has smiled and slept in tears wiped off by her colourful dreads in sleep until the morning time

when she creates sunshine for her daughters with the tears still… in her hands

African tears are beautiful

 They learnt how to drop from my fore fathers wrinkled eyes during his times of war and famine

They learnt when to drop from his saddened soul held together by the threads of his black

Beaded necklaces made from reeds, drying in his collar bones.

And I pick the remaining crystals of sadness from the sinks of his collar bones,

To learn and read stories from where were born.

African tears are beautiful, we create them.we end them.

African tears are art..beautiful lines forming words of remembrances of what could have bee

What should have been

And what will be if

we but keep on crying beautiful tears


everyone has a beautiful story in their inside..in many times there is a little angel sleeping inside of us..she is unawakened..she is lying there, passionately awaiting to be shown a path of light. The direction to human kind..Not everyone knows her though, not everyone has seen her, not everyone has discovered her yet..Sadly, some have already murdered theirs unknowingly..this sleeping angel is soon to die if you do not nurture her..WAKE UP, AND OPEN HER WINGS TO FLY 🙂

there is a little seed of life inside of everyone of us..a seedling yet to be sown, nurtured and harvested..sadly some have trampled all over it, some have sown it in unhealthy soils and some are yet to discover it.you know, it is funny how some do not even know that they have one, and they look up to other people’s fruits of joy..wanting to squeeze its juicy liquids out, but its not theirs..

and there is only one way out of that bubble of life..WAKE UP..SHAKE YOUR DUST..AND TELL THE WORLD YOUR STORY

tell the WORLD your story..the rest will unfold.

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