robert otim Poems

What is music?
What is music?
Is music the languages that shoot out of my mouth and speak in silence?
Is music the moving of my lip according to my mind command?
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The day I became president was like the day I enter through the gate of dream
Blindly my eyes was seeing colors in black and white
It was an early morning and my alarm clock went off
I was wide awake and half asleep in the face
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Home sweet home is a beautiful name
If it is a song, it would be a welcoming song of peacefulness
A song that would be chanted by millions of the return
It is a beautiful song and it would go like this
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Growing up on the street of hell is a painful story to tell mom, but if I ever had the time, I would tell her about the day I survive the bloody night. My only fear is I hope she would understand and forgive her son.
Street of hell is a hill top to my fallen half, but after today only blood should remain.
Sorry to tell you this ma
It all started on the early Sunday morning when I easily wake up on the wrong side of the bed and choose to turn my back on the tradition.
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Life is okay
Life is okay if I only live it out
Some said it is too painful to be a life
It’s forever dark when the sun goes downhill
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I am black
I claim to be black according to my expression
I feel black when my morning moment welcomes me
I feel black while I am lifting my bare body off the sleeping bed
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Dear Dream
Dear dream it always start like you
A simple dream to start my day, dear dream
This morning I dream of greatness, dear dream
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I am a soldier
It started as a dream, a simple soldier from the street getting lost in a shacking world
I took a job as a street keeper but in my mind I am a mental child
From time to time I would battle in my dream trying to win a lost war
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