Monday, 30 January 2017


The boy with wax melting from his ears, and thick viscous yellowness hanging from his nose, that he would momentarily snuffle back up into the shadows of his nostrils.

Everyone thought he was a retarded silly, except, the woman that bore him, who held his hand each morning, walking him to school.

One day, everything changed. A priest, in a white long, ground-sweeping gown and a collar, stood before the town men, women and children. A 'Holy Book' on one hand and a lump of soil on the other. Under the shadow of a dark gloomy cloud, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." his throat spluttered, with bits of shreds of hidden joy.

When they finally impaled a cross on the soil that peacefully concealed little Billy's body underneath, and no flowers laid on, they went home perhaps happy from being relieved of the anchor-heavy burden, the little boy had imposed on them. They were finally happy. They'd no longer have to warn their kids of playing with poor Billy or having to deal with his poor hungry stares anymore!

They walked away with smiles in their hearts, disguised as gloomy, mourning faces, as skies broke loose. Only Billy's mother knew of the endless depths and the hollowness left behind by his son's death. She would wake up the next day with nobody's hand to hold and no one to walk to school.

To the man who took his life, he was just a careless boy, who wasn't keen enough while crossing the road, from school. 

"It was an accident that I hit him..."  He'd lightly and carelessly remark. 

The next morning, he tucked his legs under a well-polished executive desk, with a newspaper and a small rectangular wooden piece on his desk, that read, "The Mayor".

Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Sunday, 29 January 2017


Why does love have to be painful,
Why someone has to play the fool?
Why is it right, when you feel like,
And to you wrong when I feel right?

"Love Aches"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


"When I met your mother",
Said my father,
"She was different, like no other.
I wouldn't ever trade her for another. 

Glorious she was, modest and kind.
A woman with a kind, loving heart,
In any other, I would never find.
I knew that, right from the start.

When I met your mother, my world,
lit up with the love of a strong woman.
Listen to me son, and take my word,
A strong woman's love grows a man." 

"When I Met Your Mother"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


He writes, with his pen, ravaging through the skin of paper, lays his pen down.

He writes with balls of adhesive tears, vicious of the pain dissolved in them, rolling down, washing away.

With his pen and a heart battling with fear, he trembles to strokes of ink, banishing purity, lying his way.

Ravaging through the skin of paper, tattooing it with bitterness, hate and stains of sweat, words cut and slay.

He lays his pen down, on the bleeding bruised paper, pushes back the chair, stands up and walks away. 

This, he had to relay. 

"He Writes"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Saturday, 28 January 2017


A basket of bagels,
The boy's arms were shovels.
'Why poor mother', he'd cry,
By their brother, they'd cry.

A basket of bagels,
The boy's arms were shovels.
They paint his life, in a flaw,
Wink and go, 'Murphy's law'.

"A Basket Of Bagels"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


We are all afraid to face and admit this. Aren't we? That there is an orphaned teenage girl in the dark alleys of the city's streets, being lured by some stranger to the sins of this world. Turning a blind eye to the young girl, holding hands with a man who's supposedly the age of his father, lumbering around the coast line, leisurely, whilst we do nothing about it, more than say, "Ni maisha yake. Wachaneni na yeye." 

Think of all those boys and girls getting carried away by the hype from their peers, and the wrong justification of ills by everything around them including the media. A rotting generation is all I see. A filthy nest that I am scared in the future, of breeding my own children in. Lips stained with liquor, and lungs all sooty, if not tobacco, Marijuana, is all I see in young people these days. 

"Watoto wa sikuhizi...Nkt...", they keep on branding them. Singing the same song over and over, for a very long stretch of time, repeating the same lyrics, until somewhere along the melodious mix up, the young souls mess up! They become regretful earthly creatures, feeling worthless and dumped in a pit of misery.  

But what if one courageous man/woman went straight to the orphaned teenage girl by the dark alley, pulled her hand away and spat shame on the face of the stranger? What if those people at the beach stopped looking at the girl saying, "Ni maisha yake" and confronted the ruthless monster disguised in the filthy wrinkled human skin? What if our own parents talked us into good morals, instead of remarking in desperation, "Watoto wa sikuhizi...Nkt..." What if the media showed us the truth, and the realities of life, instead of the worthless justifications of ills and sins, that they avail to our screens, for their selfish revenue? What if youthfulness was not what it is today? What if we spoke!

"What If We Spoke"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Friday, 27 January 2017


Do you believe, in love, 
Is it something we have?
I believe you're the truth,
You can have, my youth.

Does the future, scare you,
Or is it the view, we drew?
Cushion me in your crown, 
My being's tumbling down.

"Crown Cushions"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


I do seem happy, but most times I am not!
I am strangled by the tightness of the knot.
Better strings, better pieces, I need to find,
Should've snapped the cord! I was too kind!

Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


Play me a guitar, play those strings,
Prey me bitter, pray for the springs, 
Pay me a glitter, pay what it brings,
Prey, play sister, pay, for the rings!

"Prey, Play, Pay"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


Written melodies in the eyes,
Singing songs, till hearts rise,
This is narrow, bone marrow,
Draw an arrow, Jack sparrow.

With a name spelt backwards, 
Is it not amusing I lack words, 
Listen to me, give back words,
Blue quills I want black words.

Sing them a song, "La, la, la..."
Bullet shots? Or just "tequila",
Till death do us...didn't kill her,
Not guilty, but I know the killer!

"Black Words"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Monday, 23 January 2017


A bright future! That's what it was before I started wrestling with these earthly demons on the ground, whose struggles bore a cloud of dust that settled on my stars. Everything grew gloomy, dull and blurry. A dark world, losing hope trying to find at least, a little shard of faith to cling on.

So I cried out to the good Lord, to send an angel to polish my stars, that I'd once again have back my bright world. But then, I learned that they shot the angel down and made out of that, a feast! They walk around these days, with its bones around their necks!
I am summoning an army of words, and military-equipped phrases, by hitting hard these weak, little, tiny and helpless buttons on my computer, with the ruthlessness of a man whose skin has been peeled and his bare fleshed body, salted afterwards. I am speaking with the cracks of the pain of a man with a mouthful of marbles, with his torso immersed into the ground and an army of retards stepping on his head, crushing his teeth and jaws. For I want to leave a trail of pain on this paper, if not the very glass that I bled into!

That aside, I don't worry anymore where in this universe, I get to spend my next breath or where I take the next, or perhaps where I loose the other, for, between the ball point of my pen, and the purity of the faintly granulated surface of my paper, I found a widely calm, peaceful universe, where I truly belong!

"The Universe In Between"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Friday, 20 January 2017


A band of my whispers, making music on your ear drums,
Serve me some wine, on those gorgeous petals, of your lady flower.

Those lips vape steaming saliva, melting down my goosebumps,
Grill the sausage, then, let's have a decent dinner, dear flower.

"Decent Dinner"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Monday, 16 January 2017


Frozen images, in my iris,
Blow me off like you ISIS,
French fries, a French kiss,
Your main dish, I love this.

Boil my blood in your kettle,
Let's get it to flood the metal,
When the heat begins to settle,
I'll lick the depth of your petal.

Now, hands on the window pane,
Pleasure- It starts with some pain,
Only I, hold the keys to the chain, 
Skin squeaking glass, love in rain. 

"Squeaking Glass"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Saturday, 14 January 2017


You stand out, like an Island,
You cushion me when I land,
The sea shore's got quick sand,
Ooh, beach don't kill my wife!

A shadow lies where you stand, 
It's mine and I'm holding a hand,
It's the hand of my only dear life, 
Sweeps with roses, where I stand.

"Rose Broom"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha.

Friday, 13 January 2017


The 'Future' really chills me,
I guess 'that's too much sauce'.
Keep saying you can't hear me,
O blast! That's too much noise!

Bugs feel racist, 'Black beetle',
Man, where is the 'Plan B tool'?
Rae, she's mad, call the weevil,
Dialed it wrong, rang the devil!
Dang it, 'Look what you've done!'
Why carry a cross, are you a nun?
What is tomorrow? The weekend!
Saturday's fine, Sunday's wicked.

Cents earned, were, I think, Fifty, 
The Nine bullet shots, that's nifty!
And that makes our boy a gangsta,
If lit by a gang, that is a 'gang star'.

"Broken Bars"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha



I'm going red hot, from the flames I caught,
I'll tie a knot, from the battles we've fought,
I am an indeed different sort under my coat, 
I promise no boat but I will keep you afloat,
You must've had a lot chocking your throat,
Darling, here is a note, that my hands wrote,
'Love is what I've got. Hurt is what I am not'.

"Hurt Is What I am Not"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha.

Thursday, 12 January 2017


She sits firm on her throne,
With a crown on her head.
A skin precious than stone,
But inside, she's long dead.
A throne plated with spikes,
Lost life earning 'insta' likes,
Blurred nipples on her chest,
Posts nude to please the rest.
In her birthday suit, dressed, 
Trying to look her very best.
She forgets, the west's a pest, 
Life, and people are messed,
Living, is a bloody hard test, 
Spoiling the eggs in her nest,
Queen World? Be my guest!

"Queen World"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


My dear inner me,
My dear enemy,
Can you listen to me?
Look at me, do you see,
What you've done to me?

The days I swallowed pride,
You never did!
The days I shouted out 'hide',
You never hid!
No word from me you'd abide.

Now I'm taking these blames,
For your failure to take heed.
We both call this body, 'home',
But, you're causing it to bleed.
Just that you are my 'bodymate',
You'd be out of this body, mate!

"Body Mate"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Wednesday, 11 January 2017


Every night I drink my own blood,
Trying to make myself alive again.
Working to gather back what I had,
Hard to gain speed on a slower lane.

Drops do vicious on the window pane,
Raining all day, days feel all the same.
Inside a free body, is a locked up brain,
One, Two, Three... luck counting grain. 

In a flock of weavers, won't find a duck,
In a basket of hope, you might find luck.
In that night, when that lightning struck,
It was gorgeous how it lit up in the dark.

"Tangled Hope"
Drew Poetry
 ~Andy Mwalasha.


A green leaf wouldn't fall without a pluck,
When she heard your call, she came back, 
Craving the love of that chest, unbuttoned,
And gasping, on the ear drums, low-toned.
She's a princess. Hell no! She's a goddess!
Man, make a Queen, out of your Mistress.
If she is a Six, then grow her into a Seven,
And sit next to her on every trip to heaven. 

"Queens And Mistresses"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha.


Monday, 9 January 2017


Snowman with no carrot,
a ride, in the parking lot,
walk away let the car rot,
bullets will hush a parrot. 

A day talking to my brother,
and hours talking to myself.
I miss my lover, my 'bro her',
and I also miss my own self.

A game of petals, and flowers,
'She loves me, she loves me not',
a basket of hope, tying the knot.
'She loves me' I play for hours.

"A Game Of Petals"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Sunday, 8 January 2017


Three roses making stew,
Two hands, mincing you.
Dark sky and faded blue,
a feeling, we once knew.

You'd burn me, cremate me,
then sniff up, all of my ashes.
When only you, held that key.
Laid locked in your eyelashes.

Every night, 3 am was like cocaine,
The Weeknd, hitting hard, my head,
like Cain on Abel's head, 'Go Cain!' 
3 am addicts up unscrewing the bed!

"3 Am Addicts"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha.


Saturday, 7 January 2017


Wood breaking, air gets toxic,
hopes breaking, worried sick
She really wants to run away,
but away is where she is now.
She prays, for a home to stay,
her home is a wild mess now.

She lies all alone in the woods
and cries, all alone to her gods.
Wood burning, the moon glaring,
crickets chirping cacoon bearing.
She comes out, new to the world,
sets away to save her own world.

"New To The World"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha.


Sit down, sit on my lap,
let us address, this crap,
get on with it, 'chap chap'.
Here, some wipes, yap snap!
I'll be on onions, 'chop chop!'

Yeah, pretty face, pretty eyes too,
Possessing grace, that's pretty too.
Can I take a thing away from you?
That one scroll, to me you do read.
That with the Silent Lovers' Creed. 

"Silent Lovers Creed"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


Friday, 6 January 2017


Longer, can't hold my emotions, 
all these, 'a, b, c, d, e...' motions.
The highest sky and deepest sea,
can see, what the eyes can't see.
What is love,
If I can't have you, my love? 

I've been pulling all my strings,
I've been paining from my stings,
O, burning hair and peeling nails,
crushing bugs and melting snails.
But what is love,
When you're gone, my love? 

I have been crying in my sleep,
I find calm peace when I weep,
O, tonight I cry for you instead,
and for the words, I left unsaid.
I mightn't know what love is,
but you taught me how love feels...

"What Is Love"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


Wednesday, 4 January 2017


Do you remember when you were a little kid, and would really enjoy the smell of freshly lawned fields, I mean the smell of freshly cut grass? Do you remember falling in love with butterflies on sunny noons? Or ladybirds on grass tips? Do you remember those times when happiness was easily affordable to you, and in abundance? When everything made you smile? When that which doesn't make sense now, used to, and what thrills you now used to excite you?

I yearn for that little kid into my life again every single day of my life. That 'Nothing is impossible' driven joyous young man, with an ever dissatisfied curious mind and a heart spelling smiles and laughter in rich boldness. He must be somewhere, lying almost dying, and unconscious in this messed up man, knocked out by this beast they named 'Maturity'. 

Should I find him and rescue him? Or should I perhaps dance to the symphony on everyone's lips, "Grow up, mature! Be a damn man!" And let the poor boy slowly die and decay away, that I'd lose him forever?

Do you remember how everything used to make happy perfect sense to the young kid you once were back then? Do you remember? 

Yes. I do.

"Do You Remember?"
 Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


I was once as clean as a newly hatched chic's beak, but you turned me into hell's doormat. Misery's doorbell on pain's bunker! How did I allow a being that could be biologically altered and broken down into nothingness, a mass of flesh, bone, blood and some breath in its lungs to mess up with my dear precious life? You reduced me into a matchstick, that every time thoughts about you strike my mind, my whole being bursts into flames, reducing me into an ugly dark weak form!

I am lost. I am truly lost, yet you admit that you found yourself in me. What then happened when I wanted you to help me find myself? You were reluctant to leave your comfort zone and run into the woods to trace my wailing voices. Weren't you? Only God knows why. What I know is that you are human, no better than the rest of our own race and kind. 

"If you claim that my heart's your home, why then won't you preserve it?" I won't be stupid enough to ask you that question. Once again, I am knowledgeable that you are human, and humans have a bad reputation with preserving their homes. Oh yes! I can feel the Earth nodding. 

Well that aside, I swept all that dirt under the carpet, when you left. Someone that I used to know, an old friend, came knocking, and I warmly welcomed him back. 'Happiness', who seemed to have brought along a new friend whom he introduced to me as 'Positivity'. 

Just so you know, they helped me find my lost self. They redecorated the walls you scratched, painted them back, mended the cracks you caused, and once again in a very long while, my body is a perfect home for my being. 

With you gone, and I in the peaceful company of my two precious 'friends', in my own beautiful home, what more can I crave for?

"Friends After You"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha 


Gone are the days that you'd rest your head on my chest and smell the scent of my ripe goosebumps, those days that I would lose count o...