Dedicated to all those people who die.
Dedicated to all who save them and died.
Dedicated to all who not died yet.
A poem from
An addiction of writing
An obsession for an end
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I wasn’t born in Africa,
Yet I know it more,
I don’t know any black,
Black and bright stripes,
It is not an old one,
Its new to man & more.
Blood find ways to come out.
Blood likes to shatter more.
Blood More it causes violence.
Blood shines you live it more.
Blood love to smuggle out and flow.
Children men and women are down,
Burning forests land & huts out of sight,
Curses flow like a venomous arrow,
Black man had guns,
In there hand with roses,
Stop it stop it,
It’s insane they won’t say,
See me more,
Or see no more ,more than a remorse.
Lives dangerous you’ll find it there,
Curses can be control,
If they fired on the sight,
The shona who was dark,
The white man of Africa on the shore.
Militants kill them kill them all,
In search of precious,
Precious that was more than coal,
Children holding guns,
Or guns holding children,
Killing with brutality his own mom.
The hand crafted for holding chalk and board,
Firing shots with their heavy loads.
It’s not the feeling that they have,
Men kill men, man wanna more,
Guns are not roses they are beauty,
Cruelty isn’t bad for man,
As it is his duty.
Why men can’t find the god,
Why man was mortal,
Devils are not left alone,
Man wasn’t from fraternity of assignation,
It was more beautiful as rose,
Rose won’t be a gun,
But gun always there with roses.
God left this place long time ago,
We have wisdom,
Not the fear of night,
We have wisdom,
But the fear is right.
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