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Location: 8PVW+9JC, Nabuti Rd, Mukono, Uganda

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I am a Poet

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 Ostensibly, it all feels like; "I've known voices of the wind  and maybe all it's journeys,  it's melodies of melancholy that ears may never hear  blowing passed blooming faces of those who only feel it's soothe but not the inconsolable sobs it carries on from faces of those  who can't even remember how  and when they last smiled, those to whom happiness is just a dream." I've got great feelings, of acquaintance with  every falling droplet of rain,  vehemently hiting the ground  splitting into thousands of  other splashes of driblets and all the autumn leaves floating on waves of headwinds  I feel every single pain in their voices  on their journeys set for demise I find my self reciting rythimic surahs into melodic euological verses,  for the friends gone too soon.  With no moon, I'm stuck in my own realm nary a wanning crescent  with a bunch of wistful emotions cracking tales down told by burning flames whispe...
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Now and Then

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 I am waking amongst ruins,  debris of the falling, fragments fully torn off to a place far away, lost with in the self unknown.  Weak in the knees I know I can't walk this path by my self the winds over my head tell,  whispers left only to broken hearts  if together will ever be us again, Thinking about the days painted in peels of petals and baskets of kisses,  and then now,  my grayscale night,  where the moon may never rise day by day I live on to a hope,  that maybe some day,  I'll come to find that old self and may be someday  May be someday  I'll come to learn that,  "a scath is not some thing that disappears, but something we learn wake up,  ang and to go to bed,  something to live along with,  that only time may ever heal!
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Lachrymal Potrait

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Our love story begins a time and moment I let you go a day I walk through that back door footsteps marked by trails of driblets feelings over brims of my entrails spilt all around like grains of sand sinking down like sands of time a one way ticket trip to greyscales haunted shadows of our phobias. The wind seems colder out here quite reclessier in your absentia I hold fingers out for a search stroll over tips and nibs of broken pencils  only a brash but not a droplet of ink with ink from a lachrymal fountain I cast lashes and strokes of driblets adroitly tracing your pretty face into a tear stained painting.    Everyday I stand in front of a mirror is a Halloween it's freaky Friday glancing at my own reflectance I see not less than a fierce archer thrilled more than I'm lost in dread and the unprecedented nightmares  to see my other self with own hands tearing down all that we've built  turning everything around me into a world of broken dreams. Now that I've k...
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