by Pixabay

‘Poor Street boy.’ That is my name.

A title  I earned from my satirical society that preaches water and drinks wine.

One that rebukes abortion yet despises teenage pregnancies, a society of people who smile

with a dying heart, a society that made me vagabond and gave me a name they considered to be good.

Name shattered as my dreams, a title broken as my hard heart that painfully still bleeds

for a normal drug free-life, a life that would see me hold a book and pen for change,

but it’s just a wish.

And now I live by my long gone memories of the good old days,

when life was life,

when I was five,

when I’d feel alive

when papa was there to see me survive

when mama’s only wish was seeing her only son thrive in life.

Those days are gone, and so are they.

Such a reminisce.

Our shallow- pocket background unfortunately

would never give us the chance to know life,

as much as life is all we ever asked for, happiness to them was defined by figures.

Papa took to the drug peddle and an introduction to his slow death and planned meeting

with the angels began upon addiction,

he became a junkie  I no longer could recognize.

Sweet mama wouldn’t cry on the outside but deep down her soul was lost and her heart wilted in pain of something she couldn’t control.

And on that fateful day, mama perished of heart attack upon the

sad news of papa’s public shooting during his ‘daily hustle

It was on this day that my life took a turn. Water became thicker than blood

and worse more, pin-strike pain in the heart seeing  friends walk away at my time of need

so I took to the streets to fend for myself. It never got any better.

Left alone in my tenth year of life

I had to survive.

I took to the daily sniff

I took to the bottle and smoke became my cloud,

I had the need to forget and so the needle stuck by my skin

life got better as I became papa’s replacement in his business

and started living the dream.

But I was living a lie.

life by the blade, bullet spots on my thighs,

bruised conscience and blood in my hands.

anger of a tiger, instincts of a viper all in one dead soul that seeks redemptiom

with a hazy lit shade of hope

but still tightly held by the influence of one thing


And now in pain and vain I cry for my dry veins

my dead dreams on this death rag, just a wish it was a bed

just a wish, I saw some light

Just a wish, I fixed it up for a simple pure life

And it’s my wish to do it right again,

Just a wish for a second chance.


©Malcolmx Dewn Sunguti

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