My Sincere Apology

Forgive me because I am not that thug brother
I mean I could only be that good brother
You know that compassionate lover
To show that I loved ya
Forgive me for not hitting you only hugging ya
For kissing you and not shoving ya
For holding you and not punching ya
Forgive me for treating you as if you had class
And for not treating you like trash
Or throwing you through that glass
Oh, did I mention for not putting my foot in your ass…
I thought you were on that other shit when you said that I was too nice
But I guess it is us good men who always have to pay price
I'm sorry my mouth is not full of platinum and gold
My feelings for you are not heartless and cold
I have a bald fade instead of cornrows
And I'm truly sorry that the bracelet I bought you
Is not worth more than the ring you ex-boyfriend stole
I apologize that I mostly wear ties and suits
Instead of du-rags and boots
I'm sorry that I try to keep the lights on
Instead of worrying about how much ice I got on
I apologize that I can't bleed the block
And run from cops
I mean I would, by my time is consumed by this 9 to 5 job I got
I apologize I don't disown my kids and keep up with drama
And I'm terribly sorry I don't have four or five baby mamas
I'm truly sorry that I don't spend most of my time with my patnas playing sports
And I wear 3-piece suits even though I don't go to court
I'm sorry my name is not caught up in the he said, she said, you heard it
And that I don't have guilty of criminal charges verdicts
I'm trying to figure out what I've done for you not to like me
Please forgive the fact that I'm not "all in the club spitting game in my white tee"
I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me
So please accept my sarcastic, I mean sincere apology 

Written by Torrian Tucker

Death to former self

Cordially flared to fall the distance,
His figure frozen in the position of blue
morbidly apathetic regarding a change of heart
he has been a door mat for muddy sexy feet
meticulously manicured & polished by a master
A collage of scents danced at his door
Names mesh in a stew in the memory of a man
in despair
 Caution resides in every fiber where doubt is
imagined as fact
but as a premonition begs the past to accept
this knowledge as future history, he knew
somehow her soul was the puzzle that he missed until that point.
 She picked up the mat & washed it
and hung it on the wall as a
prized piece of art to be cherished &
he died in her arms from his former self. 

Written by Steven Cropper

Politicised Funerals

Pity our waheshimiwa,
haggling over corpses
like a parody, a farcical enactment
of great Brutus and Mark Antony.

Pity them, the pinstripe dogs
who chew upon the bodies of the dead.
It’s such a growling way
to offer your condolences
to family and friends.

Is it their pay that makes them rabid?

Come, let’s pity them.
For, see, they cannot grieve,
not for their allies nor their enemies.

In death, we all are meat:
come see our leaders
rip and spit and tear and eat.

The mourners see it, take a peek:
the bored-stiff chap inside the coffin’s
gone and voted with his feet.

Poem By Stephen Partington

That chokora you left. Remember?

Its as if I have no real control over myself. I feel primal and savage with every waking moment. An animal is what I am. The urges are incredible. The adrenaline is overwhelming. I feel insane. Giving in to all of this seems to be the inevitable path. My hair is long and unruly, like a desperate beast. My face is un kept and un-shaven clearly showing I have no interest in appearances. Dark circles have formed under my eyes, evidence to my lack of sleep. My lips are chapped to the point of blood and the gaunt form of my body magnifies its already unsightly effects. The left ear that has recently been pierced, is oozing with what seems to be a delicate mixture of blood and puss. What could be called my beard is more of a disgusting nest of brown and grey hairs.
Why am I doing this?
Sympathy maybe. Maybe I am trying to show myself how much of a wreak I am, so that I can effectively change myself. Maybe I am doing it because I like this monster I have become. You know I have been described as a psychotic lunatic.
My chest is shallow yet defined. What muscle I have is clearly showing itself. As if desperately trying to display the strength that it desires. My arms weed out of my torso like angry little branches. Though there is very little muscle visible in these branches, they pulse and resonate what strength they have. They are truly hatful little creatures that mock me at every turn. The coarse little hairs that cover my torso imply a slightly masculine nature, they hint at my desires to be a strong man. My back being, the muscle that has kept me up for so long is now bent and broken. An overused reliance, a tired old dog. It is bent and broken, yet refuses to let me down, sacrificing more than it can give at most times.
Maybe I am doing this for comfort, or to impress those around me. I don’t think that’s it. I think I want to write. I want to overcome everything, to defeat all of my problems and doubts. I want nothing more that to be happy. I think that’s why I am doing this. I must win this fight. I must beat everyone, and overcome myself. This anger, this animal must be overcome.
My cold red eyes, are clearly active despite my tired persona. They flare with anger, passion and desire. I want to take. I want what I deserve. No one can stand in my way. The flare of my life is in these eyes. I am what I make myself. I long to be a virtuous soul, not a vengeful hate fueled animal. I must work myself out of the frenzy of my life.
My legs are clearly defined muscles, the one piece of me that I can still rely on. They will take me places I do not desire to be and will inspire my body to move. They will carry me forward. The muscles that hang from there bones is strong yet tangible, it is a practical strength that only the wanderer can acquire.
As a whole I am a creature, little less than a beast. I look to the future to change this, but for the time I am the savage. I will indulge in this until I can take it no more. I am wild, an untamable monster. With only a shell of virtue guiding it along. I will break. Whether this will end well or not I can’t yet tell. I only know for certain that I am a train wreak, a unpleasant skeleton of who I used to be. A rage filled Zombie. A walking Hate Machine. An animal. You saw me in the bins; am that chokora.