Changing Form

A collection of poems about what it is like to live as beings made of clay, and how every experience of living molds us — from Ahmed Shayo

Changing Form

This life we hold in our hands
Was made from
Clay.

But
We have convinced ourselves
That it is stone.

And that even things like
Laughter
Cannot come in
Without breaking something
Inside us.
Yes we are fragile.
And yet
Gentle too.
Because clay does not break.

It changes form.

Freedom

I prayed for death yesterday.
I listened to my heart,
at the way its been beating differently of late,
the sound of wings
flapping
in a cage smaller than its arms,
dying
from a suffocation that holds itself firm around my neck.

Suicide is a thought that settles in the mind
when the world falls
still enough
for the feeling to spread its roots at the feet of a glass soul.

And my weakness knows no bounds.

I could not hold the knife over my skin,
what fragile thing wants to invoke death with its own hand?

I would not hang myself on a noose,
not when it is the freedom in the
air
that I struggle to seek for my lungs.

I would not bring the poison to my lips,
no soul wants to stain the tongue that recites the Qur’an
by willingly tasting its own death.

So I lay on the floor amidst a debris of dirty laundry and failing limbs,
Wondering how soon the Hand that molded me
Will stop my heart with a Command as sharp as a million knives,
So I can rest in the womb of a peaceful grave,
Free
From all this living I have been stumbling to do.

Hands of the Craftsman

The hand is one of the most valuable things we have been created with. Our ancestors would arm themselves with spears and bows and arrows, and leave for the wilderness to seek what means they could bring back for the family.

Through these limbs we have learned how to write. How to speak when the mouth can’t do it.
How to plead.
How to kill.
How to heal.
How to hold a child for the first time and feel this fragility in its bones, watch it take its breathes while being so unaware of the danger of falling down as long as there is gentleness in the way it is held close to the chest.

Through my hands I have found poetry.
And through other’s hands I have learned cruelty.
I have seen compassion mold my form,
Changing things inside me and bending my back when I need to,
Strengthening this spine so it never
Breaks
No matter how many times I fall down in failure.

And it is your Hand,
O Mighty One,
That I fear its punishment the most,
And I hold my own up to You in prayer for their salvation.

Intoxication

I think I’m just tired of feeling alone.
I am certain the silence is the sound of a larger presence,
But the eyes tire of seeing nothing else but
Empty air.

So I’m praying more because reality is becoming scarier,
and what once were apparent truths
have turned blurry in my drunken state of loneliness,
and this test of
living
gets me dizzier and dizzier by the moment,
convincing me that there’s no way to go back to being sober.

Temporary Things

And even the music I like starts sounding like the words of dead men.
Souls that,
Once,
Felt so alive and nothing would take them down.
You can hear it in their lyrics,
Hearts rising and falling to the beat of the rhythm.

And then they died.
Tragically.
What sound was in their pulse turned to face a great silence
Behind the veil of the living,
And what worth their happiness was lasted only a few seconds.

But there are still times I believe
If happiness won’t last that long then
Why should sadness stay remain any longer as well?

Ahmed Shayo is a Kenyan living in Uganda. He has been writing poetry since 16 years of age, moulding as much as his craft as he possibly could to be able to write stories from his most comfortable niche. Outside of writing, he’s a junior software developer, working as an apprentice for Refactory Uganda, as well as a History graduate from Moi University. He has one sister, single (but taken by the heart of a beautiful girl from Mombasa) and, like the rest of us, hoping to live the best of his life. You can follow him on Twitter and Instagram @finchtherxcker.