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Sad love poetry

Sad love quotes

Sad dimples on happy faces

Dark and sad things that refuse to smile

Sad love poetry

I am not going to write poetry about you

Sad love poetry is all I have left in me,

 It is what I will cling to and not give away

Every other part of me is embedded

With feels, smells, sights, sounds and tastes of you

But sad love poetry I will not give

I will not tell stories of sudden moments

Of knowing you and

Not knowing you

Smiling with you and crying on you because of you

I will not tell sad stories through my poetry

Stories of broken nails coated with shiny polish

Holding on to broken nails

Two happy people, smiling people, plastic people

Stories of she said, I said, they said, you said

He said, maybes, maybe nots, you heard wrong

I am sorry; it hurts me to hurt you,

She came on to me,

I am not gon write sad love poetry of our lame games,

hide and seek , make believe and tug of war

your heart hiding mine seeking

me making me believe-sending my heart to utopian island

one heart pulling away, the other holding on

I will not bleed my ink

To curve words with the color of pain in them

Curve them into sad love poetry

Sad love poetry is all I have left in me

I will house it in

And when am done

Smelling you, feeling you

Tasting you, seeing you, hearing you

When I remember the smell of lilies before you,

The soft touch of petals before you,  

I will draw drops of sad love poetry into my pen

And bleed it on this page

But now, I will not give you sad love poetry

It is all I have left in me

One Night Stand

That night, a woman clutched at her handbag tight. Another one shrieked when a man snatched her phone through the window of the Matatu she had boarded.  He smiled at her, lifting it up on her face as he walked away, as if to give her an opportunity to pay her last respects to a gadget that she had come to idolise. Her whole life was in that gadget. It was where she turned to when the world seemed unresponsive, unappreciative, un-accommodative...the world seemed to give her a little too many sad faces wherever she turned her face to it...And that little gadget was her friend. It pleasured places that not anyone had dared to get close to. She could be anyone she wanted to be through the already fallen techno-soldier. She could put on her little black dress and not wonder about her legs. In this gadget, she could put on bold make up, a little bit of mascara here, a little bit of eyeliner here...a little bit of boobs up here. In this gadget, she danced freely. It was her shield from a world that had refused to see her for who she was, so she chose to put on a face through this gadget. But she lost it to a stranger on the street, through a matatu window, on that night.

That night, a woman fell in love with a man on the dance floor. After seven shots of tequila, a woman fell in love. She saw him dancing gracefully, alone, at one corner of the dance floor. He had a jacket whose colour she couldn’t recognise, a skin complexion that lay in between ebony, dark chocolate and light brown-she didn’t know. These seven shots of tequila were working on her, but she still fell in love with this man dancing alone at a lonely corner on the dance floor.  She walked over, said hi, he hi-d back...and he fell in love too. That night, they took a cab to his place. In the morning, her roommate couldn’t reach her on her cell phone. A month later, two months, four months.  She was dressed in red that night she disappeared with a lonely stranger dancing at a lonely corner, that night.

That night, a man broke a woman’s heart. He hopped in bed with his girlfriend’s best friend. She caught them exchanging a little too many hellos in between the sheets. New Obscene swearing words are what she constructed and hauled at her best friend. She didn’t talk to him. She rushed home crying. Two months later, they met at a friend of a friend’s birthday party. Things got heated over a bottle of beer. He said that her best friend is the one who had come on to him. That he loved her with every fibre of flesh in his heart. That night, they went to his place. She always knew that her best friend came on to him that night.

That night, a family in Kiambaa went to bed hungry. Mama had gone to Nairobi to hawk some clothes that she had bought at Gikomba early that morning. But mama was arrested by City Council askaris. She gave them the only amount of money that she had managed to raise from the sale of two tops. They released her but took the rest of the merchandise and threw it in a  garbage- collection track parked on the side of the street. Dad did not have a job. When he came back home, mama had to plead with him not to get worked up because there was no food for the night. Papa was worked up. He shouted at mama, called her all sorts of names. He lifted his hand and struck her across the face, saying that she had spend all the money that she had raised drinking in Nairobi town, that he could smell beer in her mouth. That night, the family of seven went to bed without food. That same night, mama slept at Mama Belinda’s house. That is was she did when papa got all worked up and struck her. But she would come back. She always told the children that papa doesn’t like being provoked, and that for those many nights that she had slept at Mama Belinda’s, she was giving papa time top cool off, just like that night.

That night, under some clouds, the sun shone from a distance not sure whether to rise or to fall. That same night, some saw stars in their sky, others saw stars breaking loose from the sky, and others didn’t see stars at all. Their sky was a whole flesh of heavy dark clouds, pregnant with rain. Still, the moon smiled somewhere from a distance, and all these people in this one night, were connected together by a distant warmth that reminded them that joy still is- joy still is, even on that night- that one stand of a night!

The Night I slept ( The revelation) by Checkmate Mido

(This poem by one of my favourite poets gets my ears orgasming....had to have it here.....  Checkmate Mido.....:::)))) Love and Respect)))


"Let's last forever." Said I to Infinity,
Who smiled rather cheekily,
And with a shoulder shrug,
Gave me a colder hug,
And a kiss on the cheek,
Then she whispered in my ear, 'let's last 'till next week.'
'Next week is too soon,' said I,
Red eyed,
From fury half contained then she said, 'I can't promise you forever,because promises break like my heart, if we start with playing time... Then today is last week.'She said,
'And you have one week left.'
Dazed, Weak breath,
Confused and not,
In my senses I came to face with thought,
And eventually replied,
'The moon rose when the sun died,
But from the math that learnt I,
The sun died indeed, but the moon held onto it's light so to be fair it never left.'
She laughed at my cleverness,
And said,'Ridiculous! Trickster you! I know what misters do,
And if you really want me in the worst way,
Then i'll give you today upto thursday.'
'But that's not forever...' I begun but before I could say,
She started to pray.
Stars fell and skies cracked.
'What is it you do,' I asked the godess infinity as lightning whipped.
'The cup from which you sipped,' She said,
'Has been stripped from your palm 'till you know finesse and calm. Kiss forever goodbye as I depart.'
And then the earth crumbled and the world fell apart.
'Don't leave!' Said I, knowing it's too soon,
She smiled half-faded, 'You whom,
At night know where to find the new moon,
Shall die trying to define forever in years.'
And then she disappeared.
Then I woke up.

Starter

Now this has been a long time coming. You know that silly googlable saying that goes “tommorow I will write a note about procrastination”? Well, there has been many tomorrows for me as far as starting a blog is concerned. And trust me, this is a big step!!! This girl right here took four years to learn the art of carrying a notebook in the handbag....four years!!! So you gatta give me one of those congrats pats for having started a blog. Finally!!!

I agree. I am a lazy writer- I have slowly become. And just like in any other situations, I have excuses for it. I blame it all on the weather, on bad roads, on Glee, One-tree-hill, Greek and those of that family....to say the least. Before these ages of the referendum, promulgation, philanthropic-enough, writing used to flow in me. Every moment I felt a tear in my eye, a pen and a paper would be my recipient handkerchief and shoulder. I would cry through them, paste my tears on the paper, soak my mucus in it...and feel refreshed thereafter. Sadness used to be my only inspiration. Then days of sadness gladly disappeared with time- and so did my writing. Only times I used to feel inspired to visit my notebook was when a good song was playing in the Matatu. Then came the fear that people might judge me through my writing. I remember one time, my name disappeared in the lips of those that had read my works, and I won the title’ girl-who-writes-stuff-about-prostitutes’... and in the fear of judgement, I stopped this course that my writing had taken. I decided to be a little mild on everything I wrote. I forgot that life is a mixture of mild and extreme. And these milds and extremes are what literature is supposed to reflect. Literature is a mirror of the society. It is a free field, just like life. Explore with it, reflect with it, be bold in it, be mild with it, teach lessons with it, entertain with it...let literature be your tool.


 I am done letting sadness be the only source of inspiration for my writing, no matter how therapeutic it is. I am done with fear of being judged with my writing, of people seeing me through the lens of my words...I will write about prostitutes and bank managers, about rape and prom parties, about broken hearts and happy hearts, I will write about abortion and happy births, about the Glory of God, of Evil, .... na juu ya hio story, welcome to my blog...and here is one of my old pieces to get this friendship started.......

SPACE IN MY JEANS

 The white in his eye.
That fixed blank and blind stare…
Just a wink and a movement in his chest
The only proof that he is alive

I went to see him in the hospital
Appearance, so alien
I had to recognize him by the nametag
His face, shriveled like a burnt plastic
His bones creaking and cracking
With every in-breathe and out-breathe
Not even a teaspoonful of energy
To move his strips of lips
Just so he can cover his mouth

I called him by name….
He couldn’t look
Probably lost in another world
Of permanent pain and anguish
I called him by name again…
Then an incomplete wink
I wondered what he had to do
To be smashed weak like that


With my eyes
I outlined the twig-thin body shape
Which was once strong and sturdy
And remembered the doctor’s words
“We have run every test in vain”
Yes, the curtain statement to protect from shame!

Then I wondered and discovered
How easy it is
For me and him to trade places
As I dine and wine
With men of means and money

I am not lucky
The vengeance of this weed growing
Has probably not caught up with me yet
Many a’ times
I sing and dance to tunes and beats
From North and West
South and East
In and sometimes not in
Dancing shoes made of rubber
That a gun can shoot
And I still call it protection…

So as I stood beside his hospital bed
Scared that he might go where he sought in my watch
I know I made a vow
To protect what I have
Wear my jeans tight
For there is no more space in my jeans
For weed to grow
No more space in my jeans
To roll in sheets for fun and turmoil later
No more space in my jeans!!!!!
I lock the belt
I throw away the key
NO MORE SPACE IN MY JEANS