Thursday, 6 July 2017


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 of the strands of hair on your head, and I'd spend the rest of my Sunday afternoons counting and recounting those strands. 

Gone are the days when, after work, you'd take off your suit, sit on my laps and whisper, with a soft giggle, deep into my ear canal, 'Interview me honey... Let me show you my credentials'.

Those days when rain was the background noise as you sank your teeth deep into my skin, and I would groan softly from the itchiness of your sweet poison from your fangs, grabbing a fistful of the sheets and sinking you deep into my chest. Those days that I would run from the storm into your mushroom, and still, they'd be much room left for our two hearts, beating with the same symphony, and love floods. 

I can't truly explain the hole you left in me. It's as big as the skies. It's big, enormous and with no ends. It's blue and sometimes dark, and cracks with thunder. I mean, you are the lost button on my poshy tuxedo. None can ever take your place. You are the mineral water I initially bought with the drinking bottle, refilling with tap water doesn't  restore the same feeling. None can ever replace you.

Darling, I'd make myself some sandwitch, but I can't. I am missing one piece, one side, of the bread. You. Say you are coming back, that I'd mop the house, wipe the panes and fix the fan. Please, 'niambie unarudi', that I'd spread the bed and place a rose on the empty vase on our dining table. 

The last time we spoke on the phone, I heard your heart crushing and your soul dying. Forgive me honey. Let me plant back and water the young rose plant that I once stupidly uprooted. 'Nisamehe'. Come back darling. Give me a chance to fix my own wrongs, because, you forgiving me prevents me from burning in hell, you coming back prevents me from dying and you remaining by my side gives me life!

"Nisamehe - Forgive Me"
Drew Poetry
A. Mwalasha

Monday, 3 July 2017


How did we end up here? How did we abandon the good and chose to abide by the wrong? Where are the days when older women portrayed motherly images and older men were father figures? Where did it all go wrong? Why are the youth so mislead? A lost generation we truly are, and I hate writing about this. I'd rather be writing children stories but I am appalled by the truth and the reality of the world we're living in. The morals we left behind because we felt that they were heavy for our new generation souls, then we picked up regrets that will forever weigh down our hearts to our graves. Why are our irises so dusty?

Long gone are the days the elderly would lead the youth not mislead or mock them. Long gone are the days humanity lived. Long gone are the days we had lively conversations with our loved ones. Now, we sit with our devices following other peoples' lives on social media, forgetting our own. When will the stars rain down on Earth and end this filthy world? Am I insane to have fear within myself, that one day I will be expected to be a father and raise my innocent kids in this nest of serpents? Is it any fair bringing them up in a way I find right and upright, just to have them and their innocence snatched by the world, a place where everyone else quenches their thirst on the venom from this serpent called 'The World'? Am I the only one worried?

They once said that 'What's intended to happen will'. Murphys law. But then, 'One thing leads to another'. The Butterfly Effect. If we made wise choices, If we loved eachother, If we lead eachother, If we helped eachother, If we lived by the light, by the right and by the truth, preserved humanity and our morality and understood that we aren't characters in this story, but the authors to it, then whatever we chose to put down, would've been a beautiful story. But then, it's not too late.

"Not Too Late"
Drew Poetry
A. Mwalasha

Saturday, 1 July 2017


Stab your chest, kiss your cheek, "Shut up and die",
Die by the truth, you little prick! You lived by a lie!
My head drops from my neck, rolls down my chest,
Will not give for what you take, milk dry my breast,
To you, I am a lake, and taking is what you do best,
The green, you rake, to me, leave the dried up rest,
It was my bloody mistake, that, I gave you the best,
Now,  you're a snake, coiled up inside my only nest!

"Shut Up And Die"
Drew Poetry
A. 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...