Writing can’t be done

I don’t write, I’m just obliged to the words with hope that I’ll excel

With hope that my writing will one day be someone’s PowerPoint because they are beautiful slides with Access to bliss more than free internet

So every morning i open my landlord’s windows with hope that may be one day ignorance will one day fade away like microsoft phones

Infact I don’t belong to myself, my pen is always the hard disk of what I compose

My writing can’t be done, that’s why l look up to Tuesdays

I’ve met friends who tell me, “You have a big heart” which is true because my pen is artful

The only thing I know about FIFA is the ball point pen I use in my writing

 

I am a man, I can sink

I have sunk already because am not plastic and I know it

I know how it feels to shift from home to home and starting and ending families, painting and decolorizing blood ties

I know when issues arise how you are judged by the number of bustards you moved in with,

But hey woman remember the furthest words can mount up to is graffiti and of course you are not a wall

I know how it feels like to go round looking for jobs that even if your name is Steve, jobs won’t be on display for you

I have met men who chase after moving tracks of course not to ask for lifts but hung on them for lifts for its the safest way to hung your body

I’ve met men who know the CBD very well, not because they work with the ministry of Land, they are far away from landing their dream jobs

I’ve met women who sell their bodies to pay bills for that is the only trade without initial capital

I’ve met poets who have to keep up with time and none of them has finished writing because there are many tuesdays ahead

I believe we wake up in the morning but days come when we will rise up and lavish on the sun, yes the sun magazine

Thank you

#poetictuesdays

By James Musau poet

 

 

 

 

 

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