The pains of being human sometimes sip out your thoughts from the imaginative groaning eyes of the world.  The sun itself is an illusion of abysmally dead hope.  We sort for meaning to live while leaving is the only option life has for us.  Question life and the pains it brings. Question language because it is the technically of holding to yourself and loosing self to death and crises. Question how the eloping dreams of your childhood memories left without a fare well.  Yet we bank our relationship in the hands of guiltless hunger breaking us daily.  Life is fruitless as long as man comes to die in his own sorrow.  And sickness overshadows what and who we intend to be. I’m not bothered about about your smothering laughter that would end up in causing you problems without solution.

When trying to hold yourself together take a look at poetry of elegies and dirge.  Siege of a safe unfolded the world from the miseries of unfortunate men. Question life from that man on the street begging for arms to fend for himself.  Question life from the twisted eyes of that man who wears a tattered thoughts climaxing into abyss of grave. Question life from things unseen and things seen from mouth of those paupers beaten by hunger geared towards imperfection. Life sometimes can be bias treating us differently. Holding us into death notes of wants, different faces clamouring for redemption, redemption lost in the hands of hunger and agony.

How do you expect a hungry man to define hunger? How do you remove a bone from the mouth of a dog?  Sometimes we do not wear our clothe to be beautiful or for the world to see how pretty we are but, we wear it to cover our shameless stomach.  We wear it to cover our maleness from disgracing us.  We gather in the congregation to pray not because everyone can not pray in his house but because the gathering  of brethren is a source of relief to us. When we see people drop their problems by the side of the road to dance along with the hope of picking those problems after the merriments are over.  Such is life, such is the drowning part of our lives.  When you behold a pauper,  look into his eyes and split the tale in there into two and group them randomly, there are mysterious mystery behind every of his prestigious laughter and sadness clothed with strength and courage. Such is life treating us like bones over and over and over again.  We learnt to wrap each other to our own warmth.

Why are some people poor and others rich, life?  Why do some people have and others don’t have? Why do many have big houses and others don’t?  When will I get to know the boundary between the rich and the poor?  Why is life too bias? Why? From this flattering and honesty freedom giving,  from this atmosphere where hostility is the abbreviation of hatred pocketed in the hands of hunger. From the onset,  the obvious remain that we live to listen not of the echoes from the voice of the wind rather we bank on the nemesis that the world rest on us. Reset your mind and plan for another password.

The more we question life,  the more we generate the best form of us. Although we might not get the answer to our questions but it seems so right to ask what killed your mother or father before it comes knocking on your door, wrapped on your skin like the flaboyant migration of your bodies from one form to another.  Question life from the eyes or mouth of poor men and you will understand that life is made of two forms: one which drives back the future from the past and that which hangs spirituality in our lives without a word.  Hence, we clamour for clarity of life from the twisted heart of men. Yet,  we battle ourselves loaning a little fears into our curriculum of how life pages turn from white to black.  We black mailed scuptured believe holding on to the river that joined to seas and to oceans. Life could be such a misery owing to the fact that sorrow is another woman without the fruit of the womb. Life is a miscreant of pains and hurts.Then, we do we live it in greediness and cowardice and selfishness?

Sorrow is another woman without the fruit of the womb,  sorrow is another woman without the fruit of the womb.  Agony is another man without the knowledge of a woman.  Dream is another boy leaving his mother’s arms without a goodbye.  Emotion is another girl inviting boys to look into her thigh to see if they could see her lost father who got burnt penestrating into her.  Where do broken dreams go?  Does the wind ever have a wishful rest?  Where do the sun sleep at night?  Let’s meet again where broken dreams are carved so that we can rephrased our steps into nemesis of you who betrayed your trust in the world.