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It’s Clearly Good To Be Precise When It Comes To Your LIFE... So I Try Be PRECISE When I Write My Rhymes... About These Times Where It Seems That LIES... Are Constantly Supplied And Being Driven Into Minds... !!!
Oh Lord, I want to go back where I’m from before my hair turns grey Every day I think of my beautiful homeland that lies far away from here I miss the foggy mountains, the wide rivers, and the sunny fields
Yours and only yours I’d love to be only yours To feel you in every inch of my soul Feel your laugh, sorrow and joy Would you give me all of that? Would you give me love?
This year mi nah garn care This year mi ah care less What dey wan chant, wah dey wan do Dem wan see we dead inna sufferation But pon di water dey wan we dead we are sail
Food rations she desperately wanted, As she squealed and excitedly pointed
AFRICA I Pondered What's African Time.⌚ I came to realization, why Africa is yet lacking behind.
Dear Africa, don't you know how strong you are? For out of your belly has come many great names Nelson Mandela, Funmilayo Kuti, Desmond Tutu, Kofi Annan but that's just a few
Why do you try To fit in When you’re a limited edition? Alter your dreams And you become A sacrifice to the system. Be an adventurer. Chase your dreams And find answers. Never give up
It all started when things were "No longer at ease", for Chinua Achebe, He has to take it because it was like " Things Fall Apart".
All sad stories start the same Kinda starts a while back On a bench you could be asked “How does it feel to be black?”
I used to let my emotions out For it to fly in free motion It was like a white dove poor and innocent The bird was not able to turn into an eagle Its soft wings spread through the air
Once upon a time (not as far as you’d believe), they would have called me a monster--- a “griffe” half-eagle, half-lion. A quarter of me here,
I have a journey in mind What can be sweet and kind About this world in which we live What does this morning give?
Territories fade into extinctionBoots overturn lands and flourishing empiresRocket Launchers flash into carded hillsBombs pelt municipalities into destruction Haggard paths tremble under the weights of weary footsAs boundaries are marked in the c
dear boy, tattooed over the heart of every girl are words that read thus: "handle with care" don't bore holes into her skin with your penile eyes: she's more to admire than trips to cloud nine
I'm a poet, I have the license to stare at anything, anyone,and write what I see, anytime, anyhow If I'm staring at you,I'm not being rude,I'm trying to decide if you need to go in a book.
Start with an organic beat, Embellish it, make it new. Create, borrow, infuse, Add to the silence, Develop a beautiful blend.
The matted carpet on my head Wreaks of oils and creams It shrinks up like a dried raisin in the sun And festers like a pus-filled boil If it’s out and wild
She paints the colors of my heart, And we will never be apart. What makes her beautiful? What makes her shine so bright? Its the sound she makes, Its the way she plays Mama Africa.
She paints the colors of my hearts, And we will never be apart. What makes her beautiful? What makes her shine so bright? Its the sound she makes, Its the way she plays Mama Africa.
connected by blood and marked differently by hair and villages they were enticed by our beauty, we walked the earth with pride
There was one more word I needed to say but he left before I could say it So I texted it to him It was Bye and he never responded It didn't even say he read it He had deleted my number
DOOMED. Doomed I say. For all has been destroyed. Endless souls have fallen into the void. Lost I say. They are the Forgotten Ones.
They had a Life full of Fun, neighbours and Family; Disaster struck and tore it all apart leaving them Funny; where use to be home is now pile of sand, stones and nothing...
Africa sweet Africa my home.Africa my sweet home. My black race I will embraceMy black race I’ll not disgrace.
Hakukuwa na rom au ale katika ardhi ya Yoku. Wananchi wa mali badala walikusanyika na kunywa divai tamu katika mipaka ya vibanda vyao msongamano.
From the Boiling Point In the Glory of Morning Faced with a Stairway to Heaven We Travel with Gulliver In Overland Trucks None shall be caught in Hades’ Toilet Bowl For we feed on manna
My words tend to be abrasive sometimes abusive. They are painful and will wear you down it’s like sandpaper versus toilet paper
When Afrika is seen not heard All mothers mewl for they are so With Afrika portrayed absurd A father’s place is soon let go While Afrika by fools is tamed That brother hunts for joy with lead
I have orated to the lay about the dangers of AIDS & how every books page brings you a step closer to getting paid I have recited to the rich about a large poverty ditch
I make music for talk radio Sounds which bring a sting You better get strapped in this is strictly poetry You’ll find no sixteen bar forms or punch line platforms and I’m still the illest poet
Tanzania: the fertile land Young children, how they work so hard Get good grades, pass, get out Thus is the dream for many But reality strikes like lighting As hopes are shaken
Going to school, 12 years and I'm done. All my 8 classes, demanding attention. I use my car to drive there, it could use new suspension. All that car maintenance, demands such attention.
I see this girl all alone and wonder why? So I go up to her and ask are you okay?She replies by saying leave me alone! I didn't know how to react so I began to slowly walk away. Then she stopped me and says “African booty scratcher”. What?!
Filld with that turgid silence Registering disturbance in resilience Arousing aroused anxiety Beauy debated in baked filthy Stealing instant focus Un-delineating no locus Pouring oxygen of drivel
Beautified by mountains, lakes and wildlife, Africa is innocent in alluring sunrises and sunsets. She is that child born beautiful and strong, Loveable in majestic dances and laughter,
I never understood how a city could be divided in two. Nairobi City. The city of two. The rich and the poor too. This is where you succeed if you know who to talk to,
Where is what he fought and died for? “Who?” I hear you asking. Dedan Kimathi! The man we love to forget. The man who turns in his unmarked grave every day, The man screaming in his grave right now at our betrayal!
Walking down Eastlands in Nairobi with my head bowed and my hands pocketed at 3am has always been such a beautiful thing to me.
I have been around and I have seen a lot. And many a time I have been to the ballot. Sometimes when I am looking around, I see their ignorance being spoken out loud.
“Psst! Psst! Have you heard? He has just bought a new car. And his wife, she is so beautiful! How did he manage that? He must have visited the witchdoctor.”
I am drowning in tribulations yet I laugh. I laugh at you, I laugh at me. I laugh at all of us whose lives are tough. He watches us with much glee, Seeing how he fooled us once more.
Her porcelain skin reflects the light, That is absorbed by everybody else’s deep brown around her. She is not rich, but they think she is. She does not know everything, but they think she does.
From Adam and Eve to Ancient Egypt and from Egypt to modern Nigeria Africa has always been teaming with diversity With over 2,000 cultures Africa is a melting pot of cultural exchanges
As I roam the poor streets of Ethiopia, The wails of the children come to my attention. I look to my left and see the worn-out, oversized clothes That hang loosely on their bodies.
My great continent Africa. Africa is so rich and big. We have oil, diamonds, and gold! Europe, Asia, the Americas joy! They want to take our riches. Yes I am one of the biggest continents!
I am greed, want.She is need, lack. I am anger and frustration.She is hope, tenacity. She is yellowamidst the grey that I'm become. But I am success, money.And she is poverty, dust.
From the African jungles, to the ancient African temples; Why do we praise Shakespeare? We see as the water ripples, our people once shook speares. Remember, Africa created art.
Land of the free & the home of the brave No, I'm not talking about America, I'm talking about Somalia Before it was broken Before we used our power with words and not swords
Out of the night that covers me, In the shadows of self unseen, Only the spark can ignite me. As I thank the Higher Power that be, For the courage to be a shining light.
– Where is the Justice? My feet matches on oil, But lives in a world full of self-doubts and loss, Yet in the faces of challenges, I strive to live on, because in victory tells the story.
His forearm is cooled by the sweat of his elbows. The fire is started in his hand, in a ski mask and shell toes.
I heard that all the animals are going back to Africa. That my family is going back to the south we're going back to Georgia and that white people are now getting looked down on for saying the N word.
A mother, stolen of her children later had to hear the countless tales of their fate The engulfing waves of the sea filled their lungs before they could cry,
Eight thousand forty one miles
You're crying ,sick and your pain is so badIf only you would have listen to the plan I hadSaying no to drugs and sex is not a crimeI have said no over a thousand times
should I say, I have known these armsor should I say, I've long known their facesI don’t need an eternal litanyof hymns before I believe them.......
If we knew then what we know nowThat there were worms in their teaThat woes and headaches awaited usAt the end of the road beyond the seasWe would have pleated our dreams at home.
10101: my home. A place of beauty, nature, tranquility, serene. And yet here we are. Victims. Homelessness, poverty, pride, HIV AIDS.
A gun was aimed at my head The policeman found it comical to imagine me dead He didn’t care that I had a beating heart of my own He didn’t care because he is put on a throne To him, we are not the same
Our bones are as deep Like the Nile in Africa. Why do we question it?
Mama Mama, Mama Africa,
They say that African history is a mystery In schools they teach little boys and girls about Conrad but not the misery that Leopold and Stanley so gladly put my people through. They show young children
the motherland is crying we are longing for salvation we are yearning for the peace of God our security is broken the serenity is nowhere to be found what have we succumbed to?
Yet my path grows my story will never change. It grows, it calls, and it even bleeds, yet never asks for help.
The world we live in today can in a moment's notice decay, which without reason will leave us orphaned away. I have walked over the prints of African children, and yet nothing's changed.
Lights, Camera, Action Light, How do you see it? Can you even see it? Or is it felt on the fine arms that brush up when air is left of mist.
People don’t seem to know They never seem to understand All the pain I refuse to show When I hold a little brown hand I see the pain in their eyes Surviving from day to day
Miles of walking The privileged get in steps
Sweeping dust in the factory coughing out pollution casually making shoes for kids in the west each hour getting paid ten cents there is a woman in somalia each day she faces insomnia
The sweet scent of mangoes, yellow andgreenJuicy sugarcanes and crisp pawpaw’s,coated with pleasurable sheenEach dotted with drops of water from themorning rain
Their eyes, I can't seem to shake. Their eyes, they look with beauty and grace. Those smiles, that delicate innocence. That desperation, you can feel from a distance. The warmth of a heart.
Two fists raised tow
Alexander K Opicho(Eldoret, Kenya;firstname.lastname@example.org)Daughters,sisters and brethren in the African womenfolk
Who am I?I don't have a full comprehension Yet,But living this long,And becoming this strong,From the hardships I've faced,The sorrows I've embraced,
I always look up to you, bro,
In Africa, the sunset is not like Athens where the colors come out at night, after the city burns hazy red with car emissions. Or in London where settling light is damp like watercolors that
I am here.
She is a goddess. With the smoothest cocoa skin and eyes that sparkle like the Sun at its zenith. A queen. Her crown aglow with the glory of her pride and the powerful stride in her feet.
To the "dear" Mrs. Langerman. How dare you take advantage of a young child. She was innocent, sweet and mild. Just because of her race you stood there Discriminating and staring with that dark stare.
What happens in homes wherefathers are rolling stonesand the temptations ofthe street are open so oftenthat any other optionis unknown.
When you look into my eyes What does you see? You see a pitiable disposition Suffering Pain Poverty From the beginning of time I have been marked “thing” or “animal”
I don't think you get it. Have your parents ever hurt you? Day after day? Bruise after bruise? I don't mean physically, But by harsh words. You'd think someone
Lion Lion in the plain,Giant paws and golden mane,Licks his lips craving meat,Scans the plain for prey to eat.
Wish I was colorblind Differences weren't relevant Soon as I was to find A dog is not an elephant But what about the hurt so important color sep'rating whites from dirt
"Momma, you are a vivacious woman with enormous potential." "Son, the corrupt has taken away my innocence." "But you have given us all birth."
I dot the foundation on the uneven areas of my skin, like I’ve seen my sister Rose do. Figuring out the uneven areas isn’t hard, since my cappuccino birthmark is not the same pecan tan tone as my skin.
Will the lion's roar, Be heard forevermore? Or will it fade into the distance, Like the music of a past African dance? Will the elephants still tread, the paths they've memorized in their heads?
In a distant land, from where I was raised Where I grew up and where I had played. I had never dreamed, that I would find In a different place, a home from inside. So many new faces! The handshake I know.
We prepare long and hard Sweating and in pain We arrive and the the air is dry and stiff I hear no language that I know And acknowledge my detachment from familiarity We arrive to our new home After a bumpy ride In a run-down, old, moldy bus The
What is there to do when your whole culture has been uprooted and shunned Identity relies on oral tradition and storytelling because textbooks are too afraid to tell the truth.
Tracing my roots.. Riding down this industrialized road Looking through the tinted glass Watching the land escape my view Tracing my roots.. Fifty-five miles per hour, I watch.
Bang! Bang! Like the shot heard around the world Another life lost on the curb. Once more, an innocent life unfurled.
Take me back to the days of a Ghanaian sunset. When hope dwelled above the waters of despair And I gazed into the eyes of a sinking soul. Where trust and fear were honest and pure --
When I look in the mirror I see so much more than myself, I see Africa. I tug at my hair and watch it defy gravity, each strand standing tall and proud, refusing to fall like the great pyramids in Egypt.
I am that little girl living in that little hole. Insides oozing out of me, insects creeping into my soul. Moans and cries nightly and daily, accepting my punishment, vulnerable…..gravely.
Can you see them? The ones hurting Crying Dying I can You go on with life As if nothing’s wrong Everything’s perfect But I know you hear them