Friday, 24 March 2017


He once met a lass, so fine,
Told himself, "I'll make her mine."
She brewed him the best honey, 
And made all his days sunny,
But would sting him like a bee. 

Had a pet name, called her, "Bee",
Played her melodies on soft piano,
Wrote her Poems, bold P, I know,
Always sung her a song, "Please, Believe",
And one day, she packed and left.

His poor heart was left, a cleft,
Got it wrong, thought it was "Bee leave",
Well, she did terribly, misunderstand,
Now he writes to make the miss understand,
His words craving for what he once felt.

"He Once Met A Lass"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

(Art Credits to the Artist)

Thursday, 23 March 2017


A picture in my hands, slightly over two decades oldA baby tightly calm, in arms, my eyes grow wet and coldA tear splashes, onto a fold, on the picture's surface, onto my tiny infant face.

Taken few minutes after birth, I have always been told. With my innocent eyes closed, a tight grip on my fist hold. If I could ever have back, that moment in the picture, I would try, not to cry. I would smile back at you, mother, and high-five you, father.

You rocked me on your laps, when I couldn't shut my lips. I cried all night, you never slept. You always stood by me, and never left. Behind these grown irises of mine, you will always, forever, remain, the people who make me happy. Always, My Mummy and My Daddy.

"Mummy & Daddy"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha 


With nowhere else to go tonight, I prepare, for a familiar journey. Tonight, like all nights, I am going 'insane'.

So, I wasted away my day, packing up, stuffing my mind up with irrelevant relevance, all day kissing vipers and massaging crocodiles, that, I'll hop later, into my misery cabin, and slide down my cock-pit, get drunk on the smell of my clean duvet, and finally fly myself away into insomnia land.

I am going insane and I do not like this ride, yet, I haven't been crazy, nuts or bananas, just yet. Every time that I have to abandon my ship, they say something quite strange to me, "Good Morning..." 

Strangely, I must be the only one riding, a crazy dinosaur-ghost at night, all alone, over here. Other wise, what is good about my insanity, that you have to ask about, each and every morning?
  "Insane"                                                 Drew Poetry                          ~Andy Mwalasha

Saturday, 18 March 2017


She had just landed from America,
Stepped into, my 80's Volkswagen,
Made that vintage car, a merry car,
She was like a dream folks work on,
But then, I was just, a taxi - driver,
Just a bloke, instructed to drive her.

From my driver seat,  I was drunk,
Drunk with what couldn't be mine,
Drunk driving was illegal, top rank, 
She was pure gold, out of the mine, 
But then, I was just, a taxi - driver,
She could never ever, ever be mine.

"Taxi - Driver"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha.


Thursday, 16 March 2017


Palm leaves swaying, to God's breath,
21 pilots on my ears, I'm on auto pilot,
Still, 21 pilots and my being's crushing,
The Weeknd is too, so who's Monday?
My remains in the sea, waves rushing,
Time is eating us, like stallions on hay,
It feels good, walking down this road,
I once dragged, a blood - stained rod,
A shovel on my dusty wide shoulders,
With my shadow, nothing could hold us,
Buried lifeless and for a millionth time, 
Born life - full over again stuck in time, 
Glow in the dark and shine, in the light,
Told myself, if I lose, then, I can fight,
I fought before, I'll fight now till death,
That's what each of my breath's worth.

"The Worth Of My Breath"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha



Tuesday, 14 March 2017


I live my life like a lizard.
Well, I live my life hard!
You want to grab my tail,
So to slow down my trail,
Well, I'll leave that; wiggly,
annoying piece of myself,
on your filthy fingertips.

I know how to let go,
I know, I can grow,
I will once sigh and go,
I am stronger now,
Way stronger,  
Than ever before.

Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Monday, 13 March 2017


When he was a little boy, his favourite toy was a blue toy racing car, which he'd spend most of his time pushing around the floor while his mother mopped the floor. He'd refuse to go out to play with other kids.

Now he's grown into a man and signed up with a rallying company. Today would be the greatest race of his lifetime. Her mother is there to watch her only son, her only boy, her only child and her only man make her proud.

As he squeezes into the driver seat of the racing metallic monster, she says a prayer in a thrill. But there's something the universe is keeping a secret from her, that if she knew about, she'd jump over the barriers from the audience without caring how much wear and tear the fierce asphalt would do to her precious wrinkles and pull him out.

Today, all she ever cared about in this world would vanish. Today, her little man would become a memory. He'd perish in a crash, in a flash.

She looks at his blue car, raving like a thirsty monster racing for an oasis as the flag drops. She feels pride build up, as tires screech away, leaving the crowd well fed with smoke and the smell of burning rubber, she jumps with the pride of a million champions, yelling, "Yeah, that's my son!"

Now freeze that scenario for a minute. I can't imagine I am about to ruin this. The old mother will sadly walk home with her world in a trash bin. She'll stand before her sitting room, decorated with his son's trophies and medals, mourn, cry and curse. A part of her will understand that he fulfilled his purpose and that it was worth it. But the other part, the motherly part, will never understand, and the void will go on unfilled for eternity. 

Back to the frozen moment, unfreeze it. She blows her whistle jumping and waving her arms, with a big poster that read "I love you Son."

Her happiness is about to get dull. The universe is waiting for the right time to serve devastation. It's waiting for her son's star to dim.

"Blue Car"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Sunday, 12 March 2017


A ship, she was,
docked in my harbour,
lowered her anchor,
rusty, yet flawless,
she danced to the mocking waves,
rushing, breaking in her curves,
modestly dressed in sails,
she'd cruised seas, for days,
nights, months, just for me.

I sunk deep in her cabin,
behold, a chest of treasure, she held.
In pure jealous, I stabbed the captain,
and as the poor bloke bled,
I slowly stroked her mast,
she squeaked deep, in ecstasy,
trembling her salty ocean - wet iron.
She sailed for me, she came for me,
I must've been her cruising fantasy.

"In My Harbour"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


When you want to get your feet, off the ground,
But gravity keeps on holding you more, around.
When you want to spread your wings to the sun,
And your father tells you, "Make me proud son."
But there is one thing you wish you hadn't done,
That which is heavy, making your heart a tonne,
That which you'd look back at, and wish to turn.
But then you make him proud. "We live and learn."

"Live And Learn"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Saturday, 11 March 2017


I'm I the teabag in your tea?
I'm I the sugar in your tea? 
I'm I the milk in your tea?
I'm I everything in your tea?
Tell me, I am the water, atleast,
Or the cup served with the feast.

No. Do not! Shut up! Ssssh...Hush!
I need your answers no more, shush!
I learned I'm just the plastic teaspoon,
That you will use, to stir up your tea,
Then later on, throw, into the trash.
I hate that over your lies, I'd swoon. 

The Tea Spoon.
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Wednesday, 8 March 2017


Wait for the wind to push clear,
I'll be waiting for you, all along,
I feel you in but you're not here,
To each -other, I feel we belong,
Hold on to that loneliness, dear,
I still believe, it will not be long,
You sustained the heavy to bear,
For me, love, please stay strong.

"Wait For The Wind"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


I'm trying to swim away from the whirl in your coffee, 
but, every time you stir it up, I get back to the middle,
Go on, drown me deep and make it work for yourself,
Need more sweetness? Yeap! Reach for the top shelf,
My melting skin isn't good scent, drop in some toffee,
Once I had a heart like yours. Hard, strong and tough,
It got crushed anyway. Well, this world is that rough!

Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Tuesday, 7 March 2017


"Yes" and "No" were hard choices. "No" particularly had a really hard shell to crack. So I went for the easier one, and said "Yes" every time to your selfish desires.

Every time you wanted to steal away a part of me.

Every time you needed the smell of my burnt soul.

Every time you wanted the smell of my blood and my 

Every time you made an offer to crack my heart.

And when my being was all burnt down, you'd roll up my bills, cut my ashes into small stripes every night on your table with my credit card, and sniffle them up. I was so blinded by the glitter on your sword that I couldn't see or feel the cuts you were impaling on my skin.

I finally found strength to say it. I finally cracked open the "No" shell. But it was too late. You had already scattered my ashes into the waves of the sea. 

"Hard Choices"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Monday, 6 March 2017


There is a beat in my eardrums, and it is your heart beat.
Rub your feet on my arms, and we will make some heat.
Slide on the seat, I'll give your thumbs, some sweet treat.
Your nails so neat, sweet as plums, every night's a repeat.

"A Repeat"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha


I must be crazy to write about this. But sometimes I look at myself, things and people around me, and think, "What awaits afterwards? What will be there when all this is gone, faded and the dust settled?"  
I like looking at myself and other people as fruits. Once, we never existed at all. Then on the trees that bore us, we began our existence as little adorable beautiful flowers. At that point, we were what humanity should be truly reflected as. Pure, beautiful, innocent, lovely, honest little beings. We were equal flowers, beautiful and adorable.

Slowly, we started our growth into fruits. Here, we defined our different distinguished tastes, as either the bitter ones, the sour or the sweet. We developed a seed in us as time went by, which is the reason for our existence, a driving force in us; what we'd call a soul.

As time goes on, we mature and ripen. At ripening, we tend to attract all sorts of pests that want to steal from us, the preciousness of our beings. 

It's so sad that some fruits never make it to the maturity stage or into the final harvesting basket. They drop while immature, get infected with worms before or while they get to the maturity stage or ripening. Some are tossed off their stalks by bad storms and some simply drop because their stalks have given up.

Here is the scary part, like every fruit, the flesh rots but the seed germinates and keeps on the cycle. So then, "What will be there after this, when all this is gone? When I've fallen or been harvested, when my flesh rots, will
my seed germinate? What type of a tree will I leave behind and what type of fruits will it bear after I am gone, faded and the dust settled?" 

"What Awaits Afterwards?"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Saturday, 4 March 2017


He knocked on the door, but unlike usual, there was no response. No eager answer served on hugs and kisses that night like it has always been on all previous nights. 

He knocked again, "Honey, I'm home." Once again, there was no response, but the noise of crickets in the flower garden and distant conversations on the television from inside the house. He slowly grabbed the door knob, his heart racing and thumping like Zulu drums, and turned it. His head was a nest of questions, concerns and worries. He stealthily charged in and dropped his laptop bag and roses that he'd bought for her, on the sofa. 

"Honey..." He mildly and softly called out once more, checking the kitchen. Onions burnt coal black, smoking and sizzling on a pan, on the cooker, was the sight his worried eyes got served to. He turned the cooker off and hurried upstairs in panic, breathing like a bull in rage, shouting, "Honey! Are you home? Where are you at?" He certainly knew something was wrong that night. 

As he walked into their room, on their bed, she lay lifeless, eyes rolled inwards. Strangled marks on her neck, her dress torn, her lipstick smudged, her cheeks as red as ripe Scotch bonnet pepper and in the dead tight grip of her right palm was a piece of fabric. She died with a grip of a piece of the killer's cloth. 

She lay still. He collapsed onto his knees and shook her lifeless body. "Please, what happened to you? Talk to me!" She wouldn't answer. She was long gone. 

That was almost a year ago, and that guy alone in the house with several beer bottles on his table at 2 am in the morning, is the guy whose lover's life met brutality and was reduced to a painful memory, which he is trying to wash away with vast oceans of liquor. He's in despair and lost

"Rest In Peace Honey." He mindlessly mumbles in between his drunk belches every time he empties a bottle. And that was the twelfth bottle. 

"The Twelfth Bottle"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Friday, 3 March 2017


Young men around, talking about; money,
women, and the number of bras, they toss,
but none about sermons, morals. It's funny,
we men, don't know of Christ on the cross.

I've got fingers crossed, and facing the cross, 
I've got sins crossed, but they still feel gross!
I pray for my generation and flip a Bible page,
Prey in revelation. We slip on a bye-bull age!

"A Bye - Bull Age"
Drew Poetry
~Andy Mwalasha

Thursday, 2 March 2017


I can't make love. My heart's castrated,
If life is a play, then ours is cast - rated.
Am I not the person, you'd anticipated?
For God's sake, I came. Am I accepted?

The stare in your eyes is cold; mockery.
Spice up the sour and bitter; more curry.

If your kitty scratches then please rub it.
Bunnies don't scratch,
you can have my rabbit.

The failure at luck ruined the master bet, 
Failure, at love baked in some self - hate,
First, make self-love, your most inner pet.
No perfect pair? Let's make a perfect set!

"A Perfect Set"
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...