Sunday, 12 February 2017


As a kid, I never picked my nose. Instead, I picked on other kids. When I grew up, I found it hard to move my lips for an apology but much easier to pull a trigger.  I am a child of the West, where both sides have brown grass with scorpions in them. Where men and women get drunk on venom and make a toast to every fallen soul. The only time we talk to our brothers is when we argue and fight, and the only time we come together is when a soul has perished.

The walls of my house are decorated with guns. That is the only art I know of. I am afraid of the dark. There are snakes nesting in the four corners of my room. That is not a brow! It is a centipede on my forehead. And oh, look! There is a spider crawling out of my ear! 

I want it too, a piece of what you can give; love, but it is poisonous. It will poison my broken hateful heart. You want to make me whole but I feel complete as I am. I am a child of the West. Please, don't love me!

"A Child Of The West"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

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