Hoping Against Hope ( Poem of the day )

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African tribal marking
Hoping against hope a cold bittered heart
I will stand there,

Just right there,

At your favourite spot,

Under the tree,

The mimosa tree,

Standing in your lawn,

Where you can see,

My heart bleeding, 

Trickles of water mixed with tears, 

Pouring past the spaces of my fingers,

Watering the grass 

That you never watered

I will hold it out to you, 

So that I let you in,

So that you get my truest intention, 

That I am not the geek, 

You see staring at you 

Each day at school, 

As I take my gravy,

From the cornermost table,

Where I sit all alone,

That I am not one of those you see all the time,

Promising heaven,

And dates at the mall and prom

Not because I am just a farmer’s son, 

But because you deserve picnics, 

Under the mistletoe, 

Down by the river that runs across our town, 

I hope you notice me more often,

That you look at me 

Just steal a glance,

from the hallway in summer school, 

I ask not for too much,

I ask for your attention, 

I ask for your focus, 

I ask for your little squeaky “yes”

But yes, 

I know it won’t be squeaky or excited,

Since, I’m among the insignificant, 

I hope you give me a chance,

Just a solid chance,

To show you that past my weakened body,

Past from my fractured soul

Past my broken heart,

I still can love you, 

That you can experience magic ,

With me holding your hand,

Maybe then you’d see, 

That I’m not just some waters,

Stagnant in your lawn,

Speaking of which,

I know you like corduroys, 

And you prefer denims ,

To dresses, 

Don’t ask me why,

But I always stare,

As you make your decisions ,

On clothes,

As you argue with your sister, 

On the porch, 

Don’t ask me why I know all this,

Cause probably, 

You have never noticed,

Since we were in 3rd grade,

I always watched you, 

From my telescope, 

Meant to look at the stars,

That shine on the night skies,

But I chose to watch those,

That shine from your eyes,

So I hope when you get this letter,

You’ll come knocking on my door,

And give me one of those hugs, 

Or is it cuddles? 

I don’t remember, 

That you give the quarterback, 

Every Saturday after the match,


And before I forget, 

I just live across your house.

By  Mugambi 

From Our daily poetry factory in 247inafrica.com

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