I kill, Ruthlessly

I kill. Ruthlessly.
You’d think they would have some respect, considering how big of a person I am. But no. They just can’t resist the unnatural urge to drain me. I had shown not interest in their short lived lives. I chose to ignore the whining in my ear. The unwelcome symphony orchestra.  Until they stole from me and left me in great pain. I just couldn’t hold back anymore.  They have turned me into a stone cold, blood thirsty killer, just like them.
I have fallen completely in love with the sight of blood on my hands. The act of murder feels more intimate that way. I make contact with the victim,  satisfying my psychotic desires.  I guess I shouldn’t describe it as murder,  because its justifiable to me. Cowards, they wait for the darkness of night to perform their well rehearsed evil.I also wait, till they are drunk and weak. Then I pounce mercilessly.  Totally annihilating them passionately.  Every body that falls,  a personal victory.
Sometimes I prefer a simple gas chamber.  A truly remarkable creation of science.  It gives me the power to almost commit genocide-my dream of ridding the world of this twisted misandric race will be achieved . 
I’m ashamed of who I’ve become,  but just like them I can’t control the unwholesome erge anymore. 
I kill mosquitoes,  ruthlessly.  

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Nubian

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Dark clouds approach from above the sun dunes
My soul knows no rest untill I’ve found you
Only if my wishes do come true
Or the deserts hot days suddenly turn cool
My heart is fed by the quest to find you
Scars on my back from a world untrue
Happiness is alive,  the point I’m tryna prove
I see your image just beyond the sunset
The sand blinds me but I won’t rest
In the dark its you I see
A white bright light guiding me
To a place imperfect but as perfect as can be
A place magical like the days last dance on the Tenerife sea
The treasure I seek is not hidden
My Nubian queen I search f
or you or you lie within? 

Please turn on the light

[Bob Marley x Redemption Song]

Please turn on the light.

 

Things were never as bad as this. I used to be happy. He used to send me silly videos when I was stressed during the day. Whenever there was a storm, he’d hold me with his strong, assuring, warm arms and comfort my trembling heart (I didn’t know then his arms had other applications then). On weekends, he’d surprise me with breakfast in bed. That was what I understood love to be. The serendipity. The fact that he could make me smile without even trying. Things should have stayed that way. Our relationship shouldn’t have acquiesced to the supremacy of time. But it did.

I never thought either of was were capable of what we did. We both grew up in comfortable environments, loving homes, everything out of a psychology text book needed to ensure “stable” human beings. If a soothsayer had predicted it to end the way it did, I would have laughed and told him I wasn’t born yesterday. I was born twenty six years ago and I didn’t see it coming. Or I couldn’t?

First it started with the arguments we just couldn’t resolve. Not the silly ones that end with good make up sex, but the nasty ones. We would go at it for hours and even forget why we began arguing. We agreed to blame it on stress. Why else would a couple so drunk in love suddenly become Spartans? I told Akua what was going on. She said it was just a phase that would pass soon enough. She and Pierre had experienced something similar to that and couples therapy and a vacation helped them out.

We tried everything but we just couldn’t stop. One night, after equally stressful hours of work, one of our heated soirees ensued. He got angry and asked me why I hadn’t cooked for him like a “proper African wife”. I reacted equally but sensibly. We were both tired as always, why didn’t he get take out like he always did. I don’t know if it was the sensibility I showed or the hunger in him, but a switch flipped. The same arm he used to carry me with joy, caress my hair, was now an uncompassionate instrument of pain. The next morning, after dried tears and mucus, I was too shocked to tell anyone. Akua knew me all too well, she knew something was amiss.

Inasmuch as it hurt, I couldn’t convince myself to leave him. So I endured, like my forefathers had done for four hundred years across the Atlantic. Then that night came. Our tradition of after work insults had just ended and we were getting ourselves ready for peaceful sleep. I was going over some memos when he turned off the light.

“Please turn on the light”

“No! I want to sleep”

I cursed him out loud and got out of my bed angrily to turn the light back on. Just as I turned, my face was met by his calloused palm. The rest is straight out of a Slave Trade story.

The next morning I knew what I had to do. This had to end. I surprised him with breakfast in bed and apologized for not being a “good wife”. He was glad I had come back to my senses. He smiled and sipped his coffee. I thought I put in enough to kill him slowly and put him through excruciating pain, But because of the bruise on my right eye I couldn’t accurately measure. He died too quickly for my liking. I wanted him to beg.

Looking back I don’t regret my actions. I just regret being a fool and staying with him that long. Everyone deserves happiness. Life is too short to be unhappy.

“Your honor the defense has no further questions of the accused”

 

 

-Hakeem

Stop domestic violence. Respect each other.

 

The Tale

Hey there, today I’m gonna share a story with you.
An epic story that deserves a Hans Zimmer tune.
A story shallow enough to get you lost in,
And make you scream for days, thinking you’re haunted. 
There are no characters, just well stated facts,
Thought provoking lies, humor it doesn’t lack.
A story so gruesome it’ll make your eyes burn
And cripple your imagination with every twist and turn.
The words will transport you to a distant place,
So far away you’ll forget how quick you age.
The plot will grip you so tight and squeeze
Every drop of life and bring you to your knees.
Till you beg and beg for what’s beyond the page.
But you’ll discover the story is now your sage.
So now, my friends,  begin with me a story of truth.
A never ending story about you.

House cleaning

Tears from the hills
Destroy the city we built.
We ignored our mother’s magnificent quil
And spilled our oil paint all over her aged canvass.

Lost in our vices, we ignored the peace rain
And advanced our reign
At our mother’s pain.

Now the dark clouds spit cold fire onto us
And the wind freeze our sins before they erupt.
Mother clears the rubbish that we make
And puts all in order, for our own sake.

Eruption

Coming back i now remember why i never loved it here-why i was always moody and quiet anytime i was around and the only way i could remind myself that life is beautiful was by forgetting i was here.The cesspool of mediocrity was choking me. The sinking sands of “lets manage with this” were gaining a strong grip on my zesty soul. Anytime i dream i limited myself. A dream is only potent as long as you stay asleep.

i have too much to offer to limit myself to sleep when the whole world is right before me. I refuse to come down to some level when i broke my back getting to the top of the hill. i refuse to become a grain in a heap, when i can be the wind and let everyone obey my command. I refuse to be ordinary. Life is too beautiful not to standout.