I am born in a poor country,
in a poor society, with a poor soul,
In a poor family, with diminished hopes of seeing the world.

But I am Icarus, and by 28
I would be rich, so ******* rich,
that I would hardly be able to count all the money.

I do not know how, or why, but-
I would be rich and young and beautiful as Nixon or Reagan, or Trump,
And, I would dream on. I would be here and over there, and everywhere,
For whatever it takes, to triumph over the world!

And thus the body decides to give flashes to these fleshy thoughts,
He reads newspapers and books and propagandas, which are hot,
He believes to make a difference in this world of men,
He hopes to try beyond the screen of hopelessness again.

But, These are just rantings of a beautiful mind,
Trapped in the vestibule of wriggling nets of upbeat thoughts,
And if he succeeds, he would be Icarus, someday,
Or if he doesn't he would be a candle to be burnt and charred away.

And you read and judge all poems and points,
For, The world moves between just these two paradoxes of choice.
Of virtues and vice, and to limit oneself within the membranes of such an obsessive noise.

For, The world but moves between these two points.

But I would love to die young and rich,
Before I sleep like an use less snitch.

Through your poems I finally found you,
prints of soul in your tracks led me to you ,
your raw heart stripped mine open and bare,
exposing these emotions that I now have to share,
my demise began when I introduced her to you,
erasing my destiny that was written for you,
I wander in misery,settle in denial ,live in daze,
striving to unravel the clue to this maze.
How do I recite metaphors in verses of a poet?
How do I sing rhythm in the lyrics of a singer?
How do I draw color in the brushes of a painter?
How do I guide him in this different channel?
How do I tell my best friend that for him  I've fallen.

Forgive them today,
Or resent them everyday.
A tough choice, indeed.
One gives peace; the other, pain.
You're free to choose either way.

The night was quiet except the sound of the night owl
Sniffles in the main room of the manyatta
Where the chief of the masai lay
Covered in the familiar cloth clad by warriors
Of this hermite tribe

Tomorrow morning he will be laid to rest
His body covered with cuttings from trees
With a skin of a cow freshly killed
The wild animals will smell it from miles away
Soon to shred the body and gorge themselves
You see, there are no graves to bury the dead

Ah! The memories of growing up as we moved
From place to place, seeking fresh pastures for our herd
And new experiences for everyone