Norman Mukwakwami

Norman Mukwakwami Poems

5 years from now,
I'll look back at today.
I'l wish I never kept a diary.
For when I'l read today's entry,

There is a love that does not die
A love that whispers
A small still voice
Easily ignored

Tis not that what you can change
Rather tis what you cannot,
That matters most.

Many a dark night,
I have gazed at the stars and thought of you.
Ruminating on memories
On haunting images

Why? she asks,
Why do you always write about love?
A mischievous smile creases her face.
Arms across her ample chest.

At least once in life,
You have that lover,
Not the romantic,

If I could fall into the sky,
Would time pass me by?
As i sat astride angry, grew clouds?

I never truly understood true love,
Til now.
Looking into your eyes,
Those beautiful eyes,

If I could paint our love's portrait,
And in water-colour,
Express what joy it brings me,
I would paint last evening's sunset.

Was it the allure of magic?
Or were my senses simply heightened by sheer boredom,
By the tedious monotony of life?

I stood,
Under the weight of loneliness.
Distance and time seperated me from the world.
Women in colourful sarongs.

The Best Poem Of Norman Mukwakwami

To Write Or Not To Write

5 years from now,
I'll look back at today.
I'l wish I never kept a diary.
For when I'l read today's entry,
I'l recapture the feelings that drove this pen in a frenzy across this page.
The sadness.
The insecurity.
The anger.

Words I could not say,
In the fear of regretting them later.
I'l wonder if my insecurities were justified.
I'l judge the errors you'l make through the glasses of an error long gone.
For ink captures feelings,
Casts them Medusa's stare,
And freezes them for eternity.

But to keep it as a memory only is a dilemma.
For memory,
Like a chameleon, changes with circumstances.
5 years from now,
It'l paint the memory using a palette of feelings I'l have then.

In a happiness,
Your fault will be a forgivable glitch,
On a mental picture,
Of an overally splendid time together.

But melancholy will magnify it.
For sadness scratches the heart's scabs.
Making old wounds bleed anew.

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