But I still do

But I still do

One day, I stumbled upon the dry rose in my old album,
It’s the same one you sent me on my 18th year birthday
then, when your eyes shone to my heart, lit my eyes,
peddling the flow of my blood like a free running circle on a slope
I know you don’t remember about it,
but I still do

So yesterday, I started googling about fate
wondering where promises vanish in the dirty excuse of fate
getting baptised in the cold memory of your words
when you promised it will all be okay that day we first made love
I know you don’t remember about it
but I still do

I have been told that the most healing thing to do
is to loom in the loop of the lie that other people feel it too
but that day you held my hand, offered your lower lip
and me, my upper, and our warm lips spoke our eternal promises
I told my mother about you, saved your place in the write-only corner of my heart
I know you don’t remember about it
but I still do

And now that we blame all our misfortunate endings to fate
I want to show you the never-healing scar you wrote on my soul
that same painful reminder that I still love you
I know you don’t remember about it
But I still do

©Ssekajja K Ronald 2019
#Poetry #Saving_The_World_From_Drowning

Long Sleep


The earth’s crust is shifting

The Greenwich has turned red

The orbit upon which our galaxy rotates tilts

And Mercury is trillion kilometres speeding towards us

The black hole has swallowed the sun

The blink of the gloomy stars flickeringly lights the earth


But as we die or transform

As we arch, arch towards the dying

We will not go gentle like the sailing of the weak

We will rage, rage to leave a mark

Here where all deaths connect to the breath of every man


But as our burning out age flies like chuff in the wind

We will remember

Time is a multidimensional sphere

That quantum physics can’t bend

And as we reach out to straighten our past

We can only feel the pain of every wrong move

And pray that we may find peace in that long sleep


© Ronald K Ssekajja 2018

Life; a song of dying souls

Life dumps cold words even on warm hearts

Dump mute coldness accentuated by disheartening widgets

Like lurid glimmers of fading hope it shade fading lines

Thick faint nothings, filling voids of its own nothing-ness

Into layers and layers of dire vanity

Sketching our names in its blood-dripping calamity


Life, a never ending song sang by dying souls

With little or no knowledge that they are leaving souls

So they walk on, step by step into their own clandestine death

An every awaiting snare to suck out succulent breath

Yet to this sad life we always try to cleave but we have to leave

Ever struggling, juggling, staggering and stammering

Trying to mimic the complex rhymes of living

And it looks down on us, like a frigid virgin on men wielding inch long manhoods

Looking and cursing, eyeing and swearing mixed in hateful admirations

Cascading the realities of fretful happening to fragile mortal men

And we like soldiers matching to the war, we gladly hold life’s burden


And we always seek answers to questions that never get answered

Praying that just this once, this one time that God will look down; moved

And give a gracious hearing to the song of dying souls


©Ronald K Ssekajja 2016 Songs of a Dying Soul

Black and white image of an african american man

Life; A song of Dying souls


Me, My Youth & Girls (Part 1)


, , ,

Before age and trouble dug wrinkle in my faces
I was a really handsome young man
Silk-jet black hair, neatly combed to the back
Simple gazing eyes with a shadow of dancing ambitions
Chisel- shaped face with a freshly shaved chin
A dark skin complexion, velvet and lovely
I was that man that ignited a second look from any lady

I was once adorable, young, pleasant and lovable everyone could remember my name
I was the author of captivating diction, my literature held girl’s hearts
I was the brilliance of academic excellence,
Acumen found the accuracy of my mathematics
My eloquence lured their never ending fire behind their wet desire
And that chemistry streamed for them all to see

Yet in my act of humility, they came to me in the wake of my innocence
Fronting voluptuous curves of heavenly endowed bodies with gorgeous faces
Catapulting angle-molded chests with thick nipples stretching from film-thin tops
Their freshly-baked pink-brown thighs peeping out with impunity from tight scraps of clothes
And they looked at me, with lovely bright sexy eyes with obnoxious longing-ness

And you all might not believe me, but I moved past by them reluctantly
Besides I had dreams to pursue, dreams that did not include chasing after balloon-like derriere
And they were marveled with such alien-like behavior, who would not want to…
Any way forget it, and I moved on, looking past the variety of furnace-hot ladies
Clenching my text-books on my way from the library or guild council

They noticed, noted and recorded, and they since then made me regret
Making me question all the time that got washed away when I was an altar boy
They now hold me by the neck, ooze long-kept desire
When they spell word-less sounds with glittering pretty full lips
The girls…. ( to be continued )

© Ronald K Ssekajja 2015 ‪#‎Tales_They_Didnt_Tell‬


I refuse to Drown

I have once again written a poem on my suffering

But me like you; I have become tired of this S**t

For why should my suffering become a story in someone else s mouth?

For they have no right to keep rhyming my pain

Like a refrain in a church hymn praising God

Today I write about my pain but I refuse to drown

I have become a scientist daily searching for a formula

For which God uses to choose the prayers to answer

And I have lost the count of the un answered prayers

Or prayers put on hold, or half answered

And my weak brain has tried so often to convince me to stop praying

That perhaps I should give God ample time to look through my count-less prayers

But I have been since floating on these waters of doubt

And I refuse to drown

I have lived in this community of survivors

Writing my heart-felt poetry, trying to float

In this sea of disappointments and hardship

But I subsist in this community of survivors

Holding hands with brothers in this struggle

Where we look at seeds and see the flower

So I refuse to drown, I am better than this

And reality won’t deter my faith

© Ronald K Ssekajja 2015 #Tales_They_Didnt_Tell11-like-drowning

She does it on purpose, just to hurt me




She makes me cry, and I can’t deny

Like she wants me to die

Watching here disappear into the sky

And sometimes I wish I could fly

But she is just too sweet like my rhyme

Yet she does it on purpose just to hurt me

I can’t settle for this is my story

She is grilling me with fretful worry

All she does is swing her beauty; like to ignite my happiness

Then she leaves me suddenly, leaving me in sadness

Getting me stuck in this winter with coldness

Slicing me heart in half with such preciseness

So I only think about her, holding my Pillow

In gloomy nights, in the heaviness of my wallow

Yet I wish she knew that she causes all this sorrow

But she doesn’t factually know

For she only predicts I love her,

And knowing I can’t tell her

She does it on purpose, Just to hurt me; her!

Copyright Ronald K Ssekajja 2014 #ChroniclesofMyWretchedLife

It’s not about the ones with the trumpets

Joel B Ntwatwa

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To enjoy an orchestra, one does not focus on only the trumpets.

During the recent Writivism Festival that was held in Kampala, I met one of the shortlisted writers Dayo. When I say met, what I really mean is actually talked to. I noticed that at the festival, many of us writers tend to be introverted and will not usually reach out. Anyway, that is besides the point. Dayo shared something he read today on Twitter,  “Where to find Africa’s Poets: Forget Stuffy Literature Departments and Head to the Scrubland“.

One of the things in the article that caught my attention was the fact that while the literati, as we know them, are busy forging and strengthening the form they know and love as poetry amongst themselves, poetry as a form is holding its own among cultures and languages in Africa and…

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Treat her itchy desire


, ,

I would like to treat her itchy desire
That in all my never ending poetic fear
I may find questioning voice that seem to require
That I may jolt it down with rhyme and manly fire
Spell relentlessly those words plug rhythmically the wire

They say hearts were created to be filled with love
She fills my veins with temperature increasing hemoglobin
But what is wrong if the assonance of my poetry finds that diction
For from the fountain of written works flows spoken word
So if I scribe down perfect words for perfect symmetry

If I ever find that lurid shot of her luring eye telling Spanish to my amateur English
I will write her down like a simple ballad, telling her to kill me so
For I have told them often that I will find that line borrowed
So when my mother beckons me to tell her why I can’t find my rhyme
I will still remember honey met my lips and I found no resistance

So if I get tipsy over artistic Beverly fantasy
Studios will search me for all men try to fight it
But it remains so visible they can’t hide it
Like it’s so held up on top of a pulpit
They would like to treat her itchy desire

©Ronald K Ssekajja 2015