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There are 10 kinds of people in this world,
and binary accounts for them all.

They’re happy and sad.
They’re ones and zeros.
Villains and heroes.
Villains, yet not all bad.
Despite everything life decides to hurl;
Despite every brick ball of fear
Through the stained glass windows of their minds,
Through it all, they survive.
They’re angry and glad.
They’re happy and sad.

And in their duality, they’re still smiling there
at your sharp hasty words
at your venomous hurt
that you wish so desperately they, too, shared.

Hello Poetry

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RIP by Suli Breaks

To all the victims of the gun crime and the knife crime,
To them I say R.I.P.
But when I say R.I.P.
I dont just mean rest in peace,
I mean rewind it please,
So we can remain in peace,
I had to read it properly,
To get it right in perspective,
Coz you reside in poverty,
But dont want rights in property,
Youd rather rob innocent people,
Coz he gains respect in popping me,
That the real ignorant philosophy,
We need to reject its prophesy,
Stand up and R.I.P.
Rep it properly,
Coz rawr its peak,
Went from rice and peas,
To rifles in pockets,
ruining inner-state projects,
Raw its a par,
To its riots in parks,
Raw I pead,
Remember I plead,
The realness I preach,
We have reminders in present,
Why do you think the damenola taylor center R.I.P.
Remains in Peckham,
Rise in position,
Life Remember its price,
If you say reba its principle,
But really its pride,
Raw I preach,
Remember it please,
If you dont just remember this piece,
So next time you hear me say R.I.P.
Know I dont just mean rest in peace,
I mean rewind it please,
So we can remain in peace,
Peace.

Spread the love

spreadLove

It feels good,
To see people fall in love,
To see glimpse of smiles in their faces,
As they whisper and stare at each,
It is so beautiful,
Looking at the bright moon deep in the night,
With the one you love,
And yet not more than,
Feeling of knowing,
At the back of your mind,
There is someone who truly loves you,
It`s love deep into us,
And more than just the physical touch,

Love liberates- Maya Angelou

“love. she liberated me to life, she continued to do that. and when she was in her final sickness i went out to san francisco and the doctor said she had 3 weeks to live, i asked her “would you come to north carolina?” she said yes. she had emphysema and lung cancer, i brought her to my home. she lived for a year and a half ..and when she was finally in extraneous she was on oxygen and fighting cancer for her life and i remembered her liberating me, and i said i hoped i would be able to liberate her, she deserved that from me. she deserved a great daughter and she got one. so in her last days, i said “i understand some people need permission to go… as i understand it you may have done what god put you here to do. you were a great worker, you must’ve been a great lover cause a lot of men and if I’m not wrong maybe a couple of woman risked their lives to love you. you were a piss poor mother of small children but a you were great mother of young adults, and if you need permission to go, i liberate you”. and i went back to my house, and something said go back- i was in my pajamas, i jumped in my car and ran and the nurse said “she just gone”. you see love liberates. it doesn’t bind, love says i love you. i love you if you’re in china, i love you if you’re across town, i love you if you’re in harlem, i love you. i would like to be near you, i would like to have your arms around me i would like to have your voice in my ear but thats not possible now, i love you so go. love liberates it doesn’t hold. thats ego. love liberates.”

― Maya Angelou

It is our time

Transition in the society has been tremendous,
From over a decade ago,
People`s lifestyles have changed,
From clinging to the cultures to adoption of western cultures,
From communism way of living to individualistic way of living,
Height of desperation soaring so high,
Among the privileged and less privileged,
Leaders; the mighty;
Are taking advantage of our hopelessness; our ignorance,
With the promise of miraculously providing a remedy to it but with a third eye agenda on it,
The weak and the uninformed succumb to them unknowingly,
Insults to their already borne soars is the outcome,
Speck on their eyes replaced with yet another speck meet them,
It`s our time to open up our eyes,
To open up our minds with sharper thoughts and wider mental view,
Step up and condemn it,
And be a solution as a young generation,
It is a broad and promising future a head,
It is our time to light up the way,

It is my story

We speak our minds and hearts off,
We trust our instincts and instincts of those who surround us,
And those who hold a special place in our hearts,
We sail in the same boat,
With believe, hope and faith,
That we both are heading towards the same destination,
But within a blink of a moment,
The boat capsizes and explodes to pieces,
Leaving us in devastated states,
With no one to call for help from,
We dig in and out for reasons and evidence,
Only to realize that we`re the only diggers,
Only one in the dark,
They cling on to the vital information,
Meant to make everything right,
With no success, we shrug and walk away sadly,
They can`t see what u going through,
And they are not in a position to realize that,
Why did it have to start anyway?
You ponder, no answers,
And to our conclusion,
What had been the best we had,
Have become the worst that almost destroyed us and what we believed in,
And its life; and have to deal with that

One hand washes the other before they can both was the face

As my pen is to the paper,

And my heart to my loved ones,

My sense to common sense,

I give up on corrupt leaders,

I give up on disloyalty,

But I will never give up on my own,

Play brother to me and let brotherly love flow,

Lift me up and I will catch your tear drop and prevent another from falling,

And as it always goes,

One hand washes the other,

Before they can both wash the face,

So is to the kinship we would always enjoy,

Understanding our innermost thoughts,

Yet not sounding too-off-the-wall,

And we would live in a more rewarding, fulfilling and enlightened life of us,

Of unity, of cooperation and delight,

And together we prosper,

Sub-conscious plagiarism of my past

From what I see every sunshine before my naked eyes,

From what I hear every sunset among the wide spreading rays,

From what I listen to everyday every time between the whispers,

From what is always said by the masses,

To what is rarely said by the few,

I recollect everything,

Putting them in a clear and clean script,

Trying to make sense out of them,

The beauty of the language I phrase them with,

To join the dots to form tunes humming in perfect harmony with each other,

Lays down the path I`ve travelled all along,

The meanders and straights of my journey,

Brings back my thoughts,

To the forgotten dialect of my heart,

Shaking the shackles of reason,

And retreating to the life of simplicity,

Exploring the realms of my extra ordinary thoughts,

Has brought me mental toughness, living with courage,

Towards making a life and reconnecting to my mortality,

Why is the child in hands of the beggar always sleeping?

I was browsing over the net and came across this post by the Buddhist Broadcasting Network and thought I should share it it.  “Why is the child in hands of the beggar always sleeping?

 “Near the metro station, sits a woman of uncertain age. Her hair is confused and dirty, her head bowed in grief.

The woman sits on the dirty floor and next to her lies a bag. Into that bag, people throw money. In the woman’s hands, asleep, is a two year old baby. He is in a dirty hat and dirty clothes

“Madonna with baby” – numerous passers-by will donate money. The people of our kind – we always feel sorry for those less fortunate. We are ready to give unfortunate people our last shirt, the last penny out of our pocket and never think another issue. Helping, seems like a “Good job done.”

I walked past the beggar for a month. I did not give any money, as I knew that this is a gang-operated scam, and that money collected by the beggar, will be given to whoever controls beggars in the area. Those people own numerous luxury properties and cars. The beggar also gets something, of course, “A bottle of vodka in the evening and a döner kebab.” A month later, walking past the beggar, a shock suddenly hit me….
I’m standing at a busy crossing, staring at the baby. He is dressed, as always, in a dirty track suit. I realized that it seemed “wrong”, finding a child in a dirty underground station from morning to evening. The baby was always asleep. He never sobbed or screamed, he always slept, burying his face in the knee of a woman who was his MUM.

Do any of you, dear readers, have children? Remember how often they slept at the age of 1, 2 or 3 years old? An hour, two, maximum three (and never consecutive). An afternoon nap, and there was always movement. For the whole month, every day I walked to the underground station, I never saw the child awake! I looked at the tiny little man, with his face buried in the knee of his mother, then at the beggar, and my suspicion was gradually formed. “Why does he sleep all the time?” I asked, staring at the baby.

The beggar pretended not to hear me. She lowered her eyes and hid her face in the collar of her shabby jacket. I repeated the question. The woman again looked up. She looked somewhere behind my back, tired with utter irritation. Her look was similar to the creatures from a different planet.

“F *** off,” her lips murmured.

“Why is he asleep?!” I almost cried.

Behind me, someone put their hand on my shoulder. I looked back. An old man was looking at me disapprovingly:

“What do you want from her? Can’t you see how hard she’s got it in her life? Eh?”

He took some coins from his pocket and threw them in the beggar’s bag.

The beggar made a cross by waving her hand, portraying the face of humility and universal grief. The guy removed his hand from my shoulder and strolled out of the underground station. I bet, at home, he will tell how he defended poor, distraught woman from a soulless man in a tube station.

Next day, I called a friend. He was a funny man with eyes like olives. His nationality – Romanian. He only managed to complete three and a half years of education. His lack of education did not prevent him from moving around the City streets in expensive foreign cars and live in a “small” house with a countless number of windows and balconies. From my friend, I managed to find out that the beggar is part of a business. Despite the genuine appearance, it is clearly organized. It is supervised by organized crime rings. The children used are “rented” from families of alcoholics, or simply stolen.

I needed to get the answer to my question – Why is the baby always sleeping? And I received it. My friend explained it to me, casually and with a calm voice that twisted me in shock, just like he was talking about weather report: “They are on heroin, or vodka.”

I was dumbfounded. “Who is on heroin or vodka?!”

He answered, “The Child, so he doesn’t scream. The women will be sitting whole day with him, imagine how he might get bored?

In order to make the baby slept the whole day, it pumped up with vodka or drugs. Of course, children’s bodies are not able to cope with such a shock. And children often die. The most terrible thing – sometimes children die during the “working day”. And imaginary mother must hold another dead child on her hands until the evening. These are the rules. And the by passers-by will throw some money in the bag, and believe that they are moral. Helping the mother alone.”

The next day, I was walking near the same underground station. I built up journalistic confidence and was ready for a serious conversation. But the conversation didn’t work out. Instead, it turned out the following way … the woman was sitting on the floor and in her hands she was holding a different child. I asked her a question about the documents of the child, and, most importantly, where was the child from yesterday. She simply ignored me. My questions were not ignored by passers-by though. I was told that I was out of my mind, questioning a poor beggar with a child. Eventually, I was escorted out of the station in disgrace. The one thing that remained was to call the police. When the police arrived, the beggar with the baby had disappeared. I stood with a full sense of “trying to fight windmills.”

When you see in the subway, or on the street, women with children, begging, think before your hand them your money. Think about it, that if it wasn’t for your hundreds of thousands of handouts, the business like this would have died. The business would die and not the children, pumped full of vodka or drugs. Do not look at the sleeping child with affection… See horror… Since you are reading this article, you know now why the child is sleeping in beggars hands.

NB: Share it on after reading this. Why is the child in hands of the beggar always sleeping?

Internet Supply

Internet and mobile computing is a growing trend in Kenya. Access to the Internet is through the mobile phones by most individuals across the country. Businesses are going on-line; On line marketing. Supply of wireless Internet to various small towns and rural Kenya is still at a lower peak as supposed to be. There is a wider and broader market base that is growing; the middle-class Kenyan population who are the major target. I`m starting up a venture of supplying the Internet to these towns and the larger rural Kenya. Any willing investor can support on this venture.