Thugs get lonely too...

Took out a pen,
sprayed ink on my skin,
made tattoos on me,
a rail way track you see,
in these rusty brown bins,
eating roasted brown peas...
Thug life sticking needles,
getting high on fear,
those who fear,
How I really look inside...
that thugs get lonely too.

I lost one,
one of my street queens,
to the cold on the streets...
eaten live by the decay,
fading by the day.
from staying away,
slowly dying away.
The thug still stay,
found a street to run,
found a color to burn,
more tattoos on his skin,
express his pain,
that thugs get lonely too.

Opening buttons,
gifts unwrapping...
feels like somebody's birthday,
a lady with table manners...
and the weight lifts over,
feels like on top of the world,
blood getting warmer,
a thug ready to stay longer,
shoot his gun in the air,
act like he don't care,
but what he's really scared,
is knowing thugs get lonely too.

walking a lady to the stop,
watch her leave in a bus,
thugs make no fuss,
pretend the heart doesn't feel...
keep losing their way,
and finding their way,
to that mean look,
THAT "I don't feel look"
straight from the thugs book.
but Thugs get lonely too.
Ain't this how we look,
thugs who still groove,
thugs who still move,
thugs who still prove,
thugs get lonely too.

** GOO GOO DOLLS - Iris **

Verse 1

And I'd give up forever to touch you
Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now
Verse 2

And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
Cause sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight
Chorus

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Verse 3

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything seems like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know your alive

Chorus

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Chorus

I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am

Question...? Answer....!

I have long wanted to voice the dissatisfaction
I have within myself
for not having
the courage to voice what truly lies within.
Even when those things may mean great harm and pain to me.
Maybe it is the pain am afraid of,
or maybe it is just the fear that's holding me back
I don't know!
I am lost for now,
I don't know what shall become of me
in the next millennium.
Will I be a fossil of this generation of degenerates
who fuse their minds to music,
and foreign influences
just because the world imposes this trends on us.
I am not sure what sort of influence I have on my world,
except perhaps that I am carrying on,
a sane note.

Is this the kind of frustration that other youth
in far worse situations than am in,
feel.
How despair eats at them,
for lack of assurance that what "we do now"
will matter when chaos comes trotting into our lives.
Will I be able to hold my own,
as my default father keeps on insisting.
I did not choose what role that I was going to play,
maybe all this is planned destiny after all.
How else shall we start to explain
why things insist on this gradient
and curve of events.
As if unraveling any faster or any slower
is a violation to a rule,
which keeps me here,
bound to this time and space which eats at me,
of every effort I attempt
to transcend the whims of mortality.
A want to survive.
A crippling need to be loved or wanted...
who is this man who speaks
in such venomous voice in me.
Why does he not come out,
and show himself in mine eyes.
Am I not fit to see the bearings of my path,
the end off all my action.
Should I find it in vain end,
which is my retreat from the physical world,
cast along the desolate spirits who walk the earth,
still searching answers to the true meaning of life,
to what purpose I have lived so long only to dissipate,
disappear as if I were not,
a significant part of this worldly adventure set on me,
from my birth.

Indeed,
why should I ask this questions if,
my creator would drop these answers to these questions in a manner,
like manna...
or like drops of rain,
a relief to the desert sands of knowledge I claim,
and still hold much pride for.
In noon time,
I will acknowledge that am aging,
always a day older than before,
making with what I have,
however short or brief.
If pretty ladies sit next to me,
and I stray a thought of passion,
catch myself before I can utter any nonsense.
Keep my cool and realize there is no need to act like a fool.

Or is it the case of need to know basis.
Am I on a need to know basis?
There is a great deal of mystery to me,
that am yet to be discovered.
Even so, why do I despair so?
Isn't it in my occupation that I should seek an understanding
into who I am,
what I will become.
Invest in that the duty and strain of my brow
into realizing this.
Maybe I should keep my tongue in cheek,
cherish what little query I still have of death and the the coming...
For it is clear what has a beginning has an end.
Regardless,
I will carry on with this charm,
play my harp and guitar like a pro.
Guess there is some sanity and bliss in optimism,
make hay while the sun shines sort of way.

Black Nail Polish...

I haven't lost it yet,
I bet...
Long time before that happens,
Because am still a garden,
who sows their seed.
so I'll keep it coming,
perennial as the grass,
that some smoke or chew on.
Last on every breath,
even as I bleed to death.

I know this nails which tear my flesh
which sever my feet,
get me on my knees,
leave a bloody trail,
make me write mail,
that's made my scent known,
so I can be hunt down,
by sniffing dogs.
But the black nail polish,
knows to scratch my back,
get my attention running,
with those cat like eyes,
which steal my soul,
bury it whole,
into her own.

The punching of keys,
to eddy words into meaning,
conjure mine with feeling,
until I drop into little trickles,
of color,
like a magic trick,
Perform my illusion,
drown in my pen ink,
splatter the finger prints
of my art,
make this my personal matter,
concern you with wonder,
how is it life sounds so sweet?

Or is it because,
Am a poet,
or that I love art,
as if it were given birth,
by its mother,
her name is Beauty.
Or do I go round into a circle,
empty my foolishness,
and fill all splendor within,
attempt to last this smile,
who's been stimulated,
by the one am looking at.
The one tearing my flesh,
with black nail polish.

Love me, love me….say that you love me.

Sinking in this soft song,
Sitting in my bath tub,
Immersed in this blab,
Gift of the gab,
Lab tech in this quality,
Place of serenity,
In my youth…
Lost without truth,
Making calls in the booth,
Kept a hostage in my boot.
That bleeding ass toot
You call boyfriend.
Rocking stars in your bed.
Puppet in your toy land,
Babies with red bands.
Know nothing about love,
Puppies with the perve_
Dick with a nerve,
Just learning to swerve,
Under the wheel of love
For you…
Love me, love me….say that you love me.
Hold me, hold me….why won’t you hug me?
Touch me, touch me….baby come an’ kiss me.
Draw me, draw me….said that you need me,
Now,
That I paint love.

Writing in red ink,
Ink from my slit wrist.
From the veins of life…
My arteries,
My art is…
Utterly!
Life altering…
Am no underling…
Wondering,
Where else do I go…
But I don’t know,
When I begin to matter,
When life starts to flatter.
The efforts of my letter,
Better,
Make life better.
So I begin to enter,
Roles without a mentor.
Become a victor,
Evictor of oppression,
Impression in the minds…
Mine of dimes,
A collector,
An inventor of ether,
A toxic thriller,
Miller,
Of fine grain,
Grains of pain,
Pain with no gain.
Again,
Without you.
Knocked me down.
Love locked down.
Love me, Love me….say that you love me.



@ Copyrights 2009. B. Merlin Mwaura.

Breaking the Habit….

That eager addiction I have of,
Trying to rid myself of,
Teach thy self not…
Walk down that hasty road,
Doing doodles on a class board,
An art role,
To paint picture with a large soul.
Making a sex scene,
A top cover magazine.
Playing in the background with the maestros,
Chanting acapellas with our woes…
Make the revelers pause,
While they dance on the floor,
Holding hands and opening doors,
To each other.
Trying to break a habit,
Stop a heart beat,
Extinguish all color, be colorless…
A sneaky reason to be manner less.
Be invisible to the eager eye,
Being invincible…
Yet these lips turn red…
Poison ivy comes sent,
To kill we softly,
Quench all that bitter longing,
Trying to stop sinking,
Into obscurity….
Who cares about a rat?
What hole it comes out of…
Depressing scribbly things,
So we stopped making assumptions about me,
Remain charming and daunting,
Don’t we all hate something we can’t control?
Eating things shoved down our throats.
Starting to break the habit,
Spinning into a wild fit,
And still manage to say nothing,
Only an irritated mumbling.
Because its all digesting…
Garbage in and garbage out.
Acting like a maniac,
Involved in a chain react,
Pursuit of our happiness,
The beauty and all ugliness…
The quality of mentality,
The crude prodding by reality,
And finally,
We are breaking the habit,
That eager addiction we have of,
Trying to rid thy self of,
A Feeling like …
You’ve got nothing to lose when,
All your soul is dead and gone.

Smooth desire….

Found a flame to scourge the soul,
Tear off its timidity,
Bore deep searching holes,
Find those jewels and gold,
My Midas touch on things….
The reason to craving rings,
King on my conscious paradise,
Where all folly and games begun,
Here where senses plan,
A feather to raise the faintest quiver,
Land on lips with the gentlest humor,
Looking into the eyes of those, who swim in pools.
Who violate the innocence of water,
With their beauty.
Who fall in love with fools,
But still enjoy in laughter.
A pretty chatter.
They that burn like furnaces,
Take forever to calm down and cool
down their pleasure.
Those still with adventure in their blood,
Few have learned to tame them.
Few have had the real game.
Pitying hunters!
Cage them for exhibition.
So rare to be considered a delicacy,
They that have eyes and do not see.
Pass blindly the bearers of beauty.
Qualities passed down from generations.
Pass down liberation,
To be comforted by artificial things.
What of this which comes on its own?
Of what it brings,
The seasoned have trained disguise,
To hide well behind a smile,
To place a price,
On priceless things like these.
A smooth desire to want yours,
To have yours admired.
Inspired to have the ear of desire,
Warn it where not to,
Or who not to go to.
Placed it where it can be seen,
Make wonder how I came to it,
That it is possible,
To breathe in all the air, and fill your lungs with it.