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.

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