When you listen to the words poetry being spoken,lets be honest the word boring does cross your mind. Doesn’t it? Really? There will never be a trophy awarded for not understanding poetry(or pretending to) and apparently no trophy for comprehending its roots,mood,subject matter and all the devices. This is not a competition. Its an issue of breathing in and out,its natural and as easy as ABC.On that bold note am going to get my big lady pants out of the closet and just publish this………

Job Description

Bundled on an army van

You carried your pain in  your rucksack

And your mind in your hands

“Number 234”

became your official name.

Dressed in anonymity

Your wore your rage like a badge

Swore with vehemence to forget not

The nights it rained bullets

When the ricochets were the songs lulling you to sleep

The need for Significance twists your hand so hard

Your twisting mine

The cage that keeps your rage

Has flown open and my tender skin

Receives every blow Kony should

I didnt butcher your mama

I didnt send your class under a mango tree

I didnt rent you the room by the lavaratory

I didnt make fun of you the day your feet stepped in kampala

I didnt join the chorus of laughter at your name

Or stared curiously at your scars

Am not a strip dancer to undress

Am not your punching bag

 

This is for all the unusually angry police officers.In Uganda and out. Those childhood issues your fighting…everyone has them. We simply don’t put them in our handbags and bring them to work.We do treasure our work places.

 

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