Time after time-

Time after time-

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The first time was labelled a mistake,
The second- a slip of the fist;
The third time was claimed due to fatigue,
By the fourth, I was used to it.

The fifth time, I filled up a complaint,
But withdrew, only for a sixth to occur.
By the seventh- I wiped off the blood stain,
Cold packs and analgesics would do.

The eight time, I felt oh so grateful,
There were no blood, just minor bruises.
The ninth time, I looked at the mirror,
at a person, I no longer knew.

The 10th, the 11th, the 12th time-
And my memories can no longer count;
The first time, He labelled it a mistake,
And I was blind to see It was a choice.
A choice… not a slip of the fist.


Hello everyone, I would like to apologise for my absence. Currently writing my finals, finishing soon though. I wish I could write and post and read your works, but there is only 24 hours In a day and at this point, every minute counts…  will be back soon 

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Nothing prepares you…

Nothing prepares you…

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Nothing prepares you for that knock on the door, that one thing which throws your world into a whirl storm.

There is no set manual which details- preparation for loss.
But, it doesn’t come as a shock either.

You’ve felt flutterings in your heart all morning, not the pleasant kind.
Your hand trembles as you lift the coffee cup to your lips.

You feel some type of way but you don’t know why…
soon enough- you do.

There’s a banging on the door. A body is framed in the doorway.
Your heart skips a beat, lips quiver,
no word is said but a silent motherly message passes across- from her to you.

She barges into the house, turns on the TV set. Her legs give way.
She collapses onto the couch.

You crash beside her, hands intertwined in each other’s. Holding onto the only thing you’ve got- hope.

A voice on the TV utters, “school under siege”.
All you hear: “our baby boys are under siege”.

Nothing prepares you for that knock on the door. When your world as you know it- is thrown into a storm.

The weight of silence-

The weight of silence-

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To the women who watched him punch me and said nothing…
To the men who watched him tear me and did nothing…

I could run, but I couldn’t.
My arms were burdened with
Two children weighing heavy on
Me,
Run to where,
to whom,
With them?

I could run, but I couldn’t.
My body was pained from bruises
And contusions and lacerations;
Words now familiar to me, all
Thanks to so many,
Too many,
hospital visits.
He’d be on me before my shadow
Was out the door.
I could run, but I couldn’t.

I could say something, but I couldn’t.
What would words impact
The eyes that have seen fists,
Gracing my skin
Like a punching bag;
Seeing is believing I heard,
You saw- but you did nothing.
What has words gotten over vision.
I could say something, but I couldn’t.

So I caress my limbs with Ice,
And swallow my words
As darkness envelopes the sky..
A coward- maybe.
But how do you sleep at night
With your silence?

Day 8: Where She Lives

Day 8: Where She Lives

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His hand-
Swipes across her face:
Once,
Twice,
Third time’s the charm,
and she crashes.

His hand-
bloodied
From the daughter he has born.
The child,
Who is made up of
Half of his genes.

His foot-
Finds the ground
upon which she lays,
Not gently
-he grazes her.
mama stands and watch.
Not a word is uttered,
Just the groans of a daughter.

His body,
Moves away to rest from 
All the work.
Each woman,
nursing,
The scars they bore.

The guilty eyes
Of a daughter
Piercing,
The tired eyes
Of a mother.
And silence hovers above them,
Into another dawn.


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I really enjoyed doing the december poetry challenge last year. Plus, I found this really inspiring prompt called “30 layers, 30 days” which many bloggers have completed now. So, I decided to use the prompts for December.

Prompt: Where I Live

You don’t remember-

You don’t remember-

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He’s just a teen,
Bound to get his back up,
At every little thing-
Don’t you remember it,

Defensive
Without an offence
Attack, eager to depict-
I’m an adult now,
alternating between
rebellion and obedience,
Don’t you remember it,

Enthralled,
By the illusion of teens
In cliques,
Conforming to their
status quo,
At the risk of all
You’ve been raised to be;
Don’t you remember it,

When all you needed,
Instead of a hand,
On your body,
Violently sweeping across,
Were words.
Simply words.

But you don’t remember it.
As your hands,
Violently,
Swipe across his body.
While the words he yearn
He needs to hear-
Silent.
You’ve forgotten,
What it means to be-
A teen.

Facebook page: words of a random. let’s connect!

The price of colour-

The price of colour-

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I read in the papers
Today,
A young boy and his father,
Under the blanket
Of night,
Hitched a boat, set sail
Across the ocean;
Behind them- the ground
Waiting, waiting to be
Stepped on and triggered into
Explosion-
(A boy and his father escaped).

Across the ocean,
to a land- the land of the free,
Where freedom comes
With no price, and life
Is valued.

A young boy and his father
Arrived- thrilled- alive.
Two years down the line-
August 11,
The newspaper reads;
A young boy shot down
On the street,
The young boy who escaped
To be free,
The young boy thrilled
To live,
Gunned down, for the colour
Of his skin.

Facebook page: words of a random. let’s connect!

Day 3: I stand with them-

Day 3: I stand with them-

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Let your voice be heard above the cries of
those living in the midst of violence.
The sight of blood- a daily occurrence,
In grief and sadness their lives are engulfed.

A moment of thought for our fellow men,
Our Sisters, mothers who are war besieged,
Unaware of when they’ll get their next meal,
Their world is in chaos- I stand with them.

Let your voice be heard- for the ones whose land,
Once filled with greeneries of different kinds
Now turned, a graveyard- a horrendous sight
Of bodies in layers, a burial ground.

So, I stand with the ones whose blood is shed,
Mercilessly and their cries go unheard.


Day 4: A sonnet. Oh my, I didn’t know writing a sonnet could be so hard, what with the rhyming and the long syllables, but then again, I am glad I did it. This post is in response to DecemberPoetryChallenge.

the above image is courtesy of Third force news.org.uk

For Them-

For Them-

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For the kids with stone as their weapon,
The sky as their roof;
Bloodshed a daily occurrence,
Freedom to live besieged;
For the kids whose tears fall unnoticed,
Voices hoarse from cries;
Struck from every angle,
Their innocence dimming.

For the mother who buries lifeless bodies,
Of children she’s outliving;
One whose milk has dried from hunger,
While her newborn is weeping;
For the ones who dread the sun at daybreak,
For the onslaught it brings forth;
I say, is it worth it fighting-
The ones with stone as their weapon.

photo credit: taken by Peter Biro/ IRC

From the eyes of a child 2

From the eyes of a child 2

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When I awoke, the sun had begun to set and Ahmed wasn’t back yet. An uneasy feeling in the way only a seven year old could explain come to my mind, and I had racing thoughts of Ma and Baba. The events of the afternoon felt unreal and the thought of home clouded my judgement. In that moment, I forgot everything Ahmed told me and instead raced as fast as my legs could carry me towards the direction of home without glancing down.

As I got towards the main town gate, I stumbled; fell down and rolled over on things that felt like a mixture of cushion and wood. It was uncomfortable, not to add the skunky smell that filled the atmosphere. I managed to find my footing, stood up and took a look at the mattressy-wooden thing that I had rolled over on. Staring at the sight in front of me, I shrieked and screamed. My legs were numb, my hands shivering, tears flooding- I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Lying beneath my feet, in front of me where hundreds of bodies, draped in white with patches of red all over. This couldn’t happen in reality, no, I was only dreaming. For the first time since I had left school, I looked up and around me. To my right and left, men and boys with blood stained clothes were dragging bodies and dumping them at the edge of the already huge pile. Women were gathered together a little away from me, in clusters, weeping, sobbing loudly. Some were on the floor and rolling in tears, others were sitting with hands constantly flared up. Some of the women were seated, with babies clutched to their breasts, a blank expression on their faces- a lot of the women, I recognized. It seemed nobody noticed the little girl in brown skirts and a white shirt, ruffled thick black hair, standing behind a pile of dead bodies, shivering in fear with tear stained face. Too many lives had been lost that day for the living to be noticed. Humanity was lost in Baga, and that wasn’t the only thing lost sadly.

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When does it end?

When does it end?

When does it end?
Till we get numbed to violence;
Thickened to bomb blasts;
Cold to tears shed.

When does it end?
Till our hearts get empty;
Our nerves get numb to-
The violent messages.

When does it end?
Till the throats of the masses,
Gets sore from screaming-
For help from the government.

When does It end?
When our hopes are buried,
With bones under soil;
And this generation withers.

When does it end?
Till all our kids can think of,
When asked ’bout ancestors-
Is violence and bloodshed.

When does it end???
I can’t help but ask this-
In lines and verses
The only way I know how,
So Please tell me, when does it end!