You Bring Me Joy

My relationship with poetry started more as an extramarital affair than a marriage. I was not allowed to write them, my focus should’ve been on my studies.

My mother even suggested that I was ‘married’ to books. She was not wrong. I had written many short stories, but the enthralling feeling I got from the short expressive sentences that I added together and called poems was pleasing. I did not want it to die, like the caricatures I used to draw, I did not want it to be forgotten. And so I developed it, even though most people insisted I shouldn’t, I dared to rebel.

It was during those lonely days and those sleepless nights. When the wind chimed in my ears, and the words of my peers reached my ears. I just scribbled what I could, letting my mind drift into a certain limbo. The affair started, a summer fling that refused to end. I have not experienced summer, but I have lived it in the novels and poems of the ones who captured its essence.

One begot many, and soon I had a poetry book. I struggled to develop my poems, shabby connotation of words that captured my essence.

I was proud. In a way, I felt like a mother begetting her first child. I dared to dream, and together with our fellow dreamers, founded the school’s first poetry club. I knew it was not perfect, and other students called our poems the works of an idle teenagers who wrote about trivial things that were of no interest to anyone. I was a teenager, and the things I wrote about were of interest to me. My poem was supposed to capture my emotions, and convey my message, enabling other people to understand how I viewed the world, and educating them on important matters. That is all I wanted, and they served their purpose.

So, ignoring the criticism, I submitted my poems to my teacher, Ms. Harriet. If I didn’t love her before, I definitely loved her as she explained to me how relatable my poem was. Ms. Harriet guided me, and it is because of her that you can find me lying on my bedroom floor, a pencil in my hand, slowly transferring my emotions onto paper in my dimly lit room. I know my mother may not understand a boy’s love for poems, as she puts it, but my relationship with poems is strong. Like forbidden love, it grows.

Like a fire my love for you grows
Melting the ice that clouded my judgment
Clearing the shrubs that forbade me to see
Like a fire my love for you burns
Lighting the muddle that entangling my life
Showing the path that leads through the sea
I cannot bring myself to put out this fire
Because like a ranger during winter the fire warms me
Like a ranger the fire gets me through the night
Poetry is my fire
Its love burns within me.

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IT SKILLS AS A LIFE SKILL

In an evolving world, we cannot close our minds to the reality that the future lies in The Computer.

Computer skills can be considered a life skill because of the vital role the play in our lives. Every sector of our economy is dependent on the? computer; from agriculture to medicine to education: name it they all depend on the computer.

For an individual to be considered a potential employee in the job market they need to possess computer knowledge and adequate computer skills. Its due time technologically retrogressive individuals realize that we cannot fight technology.

Technology needs to be embraced in order for us to develop as a nation. We cannot expect to compete favorably in the global scope if we do not embrace computer and the technology of this generation. Therefore, each one of us should strive to get to know and understand the handling and operating of a computer.

We should make it an individual goal to equip ourselves with computer skills. I cannot even begin to fathom the infinite ways the computer has made our lives easier. For us to fully embrace this revolution we all need the Right skill to Guide and Give us direction. That is why I Can confidently say that in this developed times We Can Classify Computer Skills as a basic life skill we all need.

Outcometh Rage

Sometimes it’s just a flurry of emotions, sometimes it’s just sadness. Sometimes it’s just the feeling of regret seeping through my chest, while most, it’s just a crave for courage.

My Dear Love. I’m a little bit melodramatic I agree, and the flurry between smile and frown may seem inconsistent. How else am I supposed to spice your nights? To make those memories memories, instead of just dust fluttering in the wind? I throw my hands about in an effort to bestow a cheering gleam towards you, amid the stares from the crowd. As you narrate to me the tales of your expectations and your dreams, I provide the occasional gasp, the minute of silence, and the occasional eye roll in an effort to light up our conversation. And you love me for it, and I love it, but even I don’t feel comfortable doing it.

Maybe they fail to understand this desire within me to be authentic. This feeling I crave to present both my strengths and flaws in the fashion of yin and yang, because they all play their part in the presentation of my humanity. The world doesn’t want that from me. Because even certain flaws are not acceptable. I fight them for you, oh happiness. I block my ears to the tales of aggression and criticism. I choose to frolic in the rain, and to cry when certain stares get too overwhelming. To sit in the company of strangers and let my anxiety act up in an effort to reduce it. I choose to throw the occasional smile your way, oh stranger, hoping to get in on the burdens troubling your heart.

Maybe it was hurtful the first time, the question, No, it is hurtful all the time. The remarks, the snickers, the silent innuendos thrown my way, from strangers. Even friends become strangers sometimes, when they choose to judge, to make those sly remarks about you hoping you won’t hear, and to disassociate themselves without saying. They choose to fuel my insecurities, to ignite the tears and the fear creeping within me.
I choose to experience my emotions. I cannot hide a part of me I so much love. And some people may mistake my non-conformism for weakness and I have to accept that we all have the right to think, even though they are clearly not thinking. It may be painful most of the time, the stares and the snickers, but I am not willing to compromise my morals for the satisfaction of crowds. It is hurtful the first or second time, but after some time, it is still hurts. The digs. But I accept my punishment, such a small one for such a hefty reward. Being human.

You come to question conventional beliefs and accept hard truths. That not everyone is willing to accept you, or know you, but they are willing to judge you. I have fallen in and out of love, with a lot of things actually, I have compromised a lot of things, I have cried, laughed, smiled, frowned, experienced the pain of crushed expectations. I have experienced hope, and fathomed the pessimism that follows highlighted expectations. But the happiness has clouded the sadness just enough for me to feel the sunshine, and the yins and yang’s of my life have blended healthily. I am happy because I have experienced the essence of being human, not just living, and I hope I will continue.

First blog post

  • I always felt like I should be a blogger……a lot of people actually encouraged me……now am here! Welcome to my blog…. 
  • This was supposed to be a joint blog….yaah …..but my fellow blogger has been busy making travel arrangements for Luxemburg…..so i dont know what it will be about yet….,but i’ll find out soon and so shall you……i guess am done for now….bye