What’s Love Anyway

There was a time, wasn’t there?
A time when love felt like everything.
When we didn’t need to ask permission for it to stay.
It just showed up, uninvited, and we welcomed it like an old friend.

We thought it would stay forever, didn’t we?
We thought we’d always walk side by side,
Two hearts beating in unison,
Believing that nothing could tear us apart.

But somewhere, somewhere in the silence,
Love changed.
It changed, almost without notice.
One day, we were laughing, and the next, silence.

It’s strange, how love can be so gentle and so harsh,
All at once.
How it can bloom and fade,
In a breath, in a glance.

The hand that once held yours, so tenderly,
Now feels distant, cold.
And the words that once lifted you,
Now fall heavy, like stones.

It’s not always the big gestures that tear us apart.
Sometimes, it’s the things left unsaid,
The silence in between.
The small fractures that no one sees,
Until they break wide open.

And you stand there, staring at the pieces,
Wondering when it all fell apart.
Wondering when you lost yourself,
And when love became a stranger.

But here’s the truth I’ve come to know,
Love doesn’t disappear.
It doesn’t vanish like smoke.
It leaves a mark.

It leaves a scar,
Not one that makes you weaker,
But one that makes you stronger.
Because, after all, we survived it.

We carry love with us,
Even when it’s gone.
We carry the warmth,
The joy, the sorrow.

Love may not last forever,
But it teaches us more than we ever thought we could learn.
And when the pieces finally settle,
We realize we’re still here, still standing.

So, yeah, love hurts.
It breaks you down.
But it also builds you up.
And that’s something we can carry with us, always.

But then, we pause,
And we wonder,
What is love, really?
Is it the promises we make and break?
A fire that flickers, then fades?
Or is it just the quiet moments,
When we finally learn to love ourselves,
Without needing anyone else to show us how?

@okelododdychitchats

When Death Speaks

Let’s talk about death.
Yes, death.
I know,
you’re probably wondering, “who talks about death?”
I do.
I do it courageously,
yet timidly,
like a child with a secret too heavy for his pockets,
but too delicate for his lips.

I speak of death because I know,
one day,
I will lie beneath the soil of my ancestors,
soaking in the dust of my father’s land,
a homecoming where no one sings.
Six feet under, I will be,
like my father before me,
and the fathers of fathers
whose names were lost
long before my tongue learned
the language of grief.

I haven’t made peace with death,
just like you haven’t.
It presses its weight on my chest,
a shadow I can’t shake,
a sorrow buried in silence,
the kind of silence that resounds
in places where laughter used to be.

The thought of losing someone
you’re used to seeing
is a gap
no bridge can span.
It’s a limb ripped from the body of your soul,
a phantom pain
that keeps reaching
for what isn’t there anymore.
And sure,
you can build prosthetics out of memories,
fashion artificial limbs
from old conversations,
but they will never function
like the real thing.

I hate death.
I hate its finality,
its audacity to steal
what we are not ready to lose.
I hate its silence,
how it robs us of voices
we still hear in dreams.

But hate or not,
death is a truth
we cannot escape,
a reality we cannot undo.

And when it speaks,
there’s always that quiet sorrow,
the truth we’re unwilling to face,
the call we’re afraid to answer,
knowing it’s a summon
we can never ignore.

So, I carry it with me,
not in defeat,
but in defiance.
I lace my words with its gravity,
so that every breath,
every heartbeat,
becomes a rebellion
against the quiet
waiting at the end.

@okelododdychitchats

How Busy Can Someone Be?

The clock swallows minutes whole,
Gulping down greetings, gnawing on goodbyes.
Excuses stack like bricks against a door,
While silence hums between us,
thick as stone,
thin as breath.

A phone vibrates, a message waits,
Unanswered.
I see you read it.
A thousand reasons grow in that space,
But not one blooms into a simple,
“I’m thinking of you.”

How important must a life be
To lose the weight of one small word?
How far must a soul stroll
To forget the way home is paved
with pause,
and presence,
and tender replies?

What do we build with our busyness?
A monument of meetings,
A kingdom of calendars.
We count every second,
but never the heartbeats missed
between deadlines.

We are architects of absence.
Masters of the unsaid.
Too proud, perhaps,
to admit that we let love sit idle
while we sharpened schedules into swords
and called it survival.

Wahenga na wahenguzi said,
Akufukuzaye hakuambii toka.
The one chasing you never says leave.

What are you still waiting for?
What more do you need to realize you’re not wanted?
Respect yourself!…

Somewhere, there is a hand
reaching for yours,
A voice waiting at the edge
of a message unsent.
Kindness grows fragile
when left in the dark,
but it never dies.

So, how busy can someone be?
Busy enough to forget,
but not enough
to stop remembering.

@okelododdychitchats

I Don’t Care

I Don’t Care

I sit.
And I watch you.
You dance in colors that aren’t yours,
A queen in paper armor,
A prophet of mirrors who fears reflection.

You laugh loud.
Louder than truth.
You wear pride like a coat with the sleeves too short,
Talking about wisdom you never heard,
Pointing at horizons you’ve never chased.
The ground shifts beneath your feet,
But you don’t feel it.

And I,
I don’t care.

You build kingdoms with sand,
Palaces of opinions stacked like cards.
The wind speaks warnings in whispers,
But you never learned to listen to silence.
So go ahead,
Stack your stones,
Yell into the wind.
I’m not holding the wall when it falls.

You ask for counsel,
But only to hear your own thoughts.
You want change,
As long as it looks just like you.
There are cracks in the glass you refuse to see,
A compass that spins and never lands north.
You follow it anyway.
I watch.
I stay still.
I don’t care.

What kind of human walks without leaving footprints,
Shouting justice but stumbling over truth?
You brandish swords forged from hollow words,
Slicing wounds in places no one else sees.
You call it bravery.
I call it noise.

Let me be clear,
I don’t care.
Your storm is yours to drown in,
Your sea to sink or swim.
I have my own shores to walk,
My own sun to chase.
I’ll breathe air that’s free of your thunder,
And find my calm beneath skies you can’t reach.

You tell me to climb your glass mountain,
But I see through it,
Thin as pride,
Fragile as ego.
I’ll stand at the bottom and watch it shatter.
You’ll bleed.
I won’t.

This is not lethargy,
It’s freedom.
I won’t wear your chains of validation,
Won’t dance to the beats of your demands.
Let the tide rise,
Let your words fall like rain on someone else’s skin.

I’ll walk.
I’ll breathe.
I’ll write my own name into the wind,
And let the song belong to me.

So live your truth,
Call it gospel,
Call it fire.
Build your temples,
Shout your sermons.
But don’t ask me to kneel.

The world is vast,
Full of roads I haven’t walked,
Of songs I haven’t sung.
And I will walk them,
I will sing.
Unbound.
Unmoved.
Unapologetically free.

I don’t care.
Not out of spite,
Not out of scorn,
But because I refuse,
To be a prisoner of someone else’s storm.

This is where I leave you.
Keep your crown.
I’ll keep my soul.

@okelododdychitchats

If I Speak, I May Dissapear

The sun scorches the ground and the wind stirs restless among trees,
There are whispers no one speaks aloud.
This is a land of open skies and heavy silences,
Where fear lives close to the tongue.
If I speak, I may disappear.

There was a time when voices rose like a morning tide,
Songs of freedom swept through the hills,
Children dreamed of megaphones,
Their words carried far and wide,
But now, whispers turn into silence,
Muted colors fading into gray.

That’s Kenya for you,
A country of open skies and closed mouths,
Where history’s murmurs still ring
“Nchi ya Kwanza” sang of land, of sovereignty,
Yet here we are,
Gathered beneath fragile roofs,
Afraid to shake the walls of comfort.

Freedom of speech ?
A dandelion crushed under heavy boots.
“Speak up,” they say,
But the claws of consequence lurk close,
Each word a risk, each sentence a threat,
A storm brewing on the horizon,
Every raindrop a truth
That floods the streets,
Only to vanish into silence.

In the market square,
Eyes flicker with stories not told,
Lips press tight as fingers point
At faces of power,
But silence costs less
Than the price of speaking truth.

At dinner tables,
Ideas clash like spoons in a bowl,
A family walks the line
Between safety and outrage.
One wrong word,
And the room holds its breath.

Beneath it all,
The weight of freedom lies,
Written deep in scars,
Buried in graves of those who dared.
And what of the poets,
The dreamers who once danced with danger?
Now they tread softly,
Pens hovering above paper,
Caught between courage and caution.

On the shores of Lake Victoria,
The fishermen watch the waters,
Their mouths sealed tighter
Than the nets they cast.
For even here,
The law grips tighter than any tide.

Still,
Hope refuses to die.
It grows like grass and fern between cracks in the pavement,
It rises in laughter, in hands held high.
It blooms in the smallest corners,
In murals painted on concrete walls,
In songs hummed beneath breath.

If I speak, I may disappear.
But even silence carries a rhythm,
A beat that cannot be stilled.
For every voice quieted,
Ten more rise.
For every dream crushed,
A thousand seeds scatter.

We are the embers,
We are the sparks,
And no storm can put us out.
If I speak, I may disappear.
But if I stay silent,
Who will tell our story?

@okelododdychitchats

A Letter to You, Men

Dear man,
I write to you in the quiet of dawn,
When the world stirs with whispers of promise,
And shadows yield to the birth of light.
This is a letter, not a sermon, not a scolding,
But a soft wind stirring your soul,
A call from one heart to another,
A pause to remember who you are
And who you could be.

Wake up,
Wake up from the numbing slumber of conformity,
From the comfortable tomb of inertia.
Shake off the chains of apathy
That bind your dreams to the ground.
The world is waiting,
Rise with the sun, let its warmth fill your chest,
And carve your place into the marrow of this earth.

Build your own self,
A man not sculpted from the molds of expectation,
But one built with integrity’s fierce hands.
Lay your foundation with truth,
Brick by brick of courage and humility,
Mortared with the lessons of failure.
Let self-love be your cornerstone,
For how can you lead others
If your own heart is a wilderness of doubt?

Build your family
Make it a refuge where love spills like morning light,
Where tears are cups of truth,
And laughter rings like unbroken bells.
Be the architect of sanctuary,
Not with walls of pride,
But with open doors of kindness.
Do not let regret cloud your vision,
Chart the way with faith and tenderness.
Homes are not houses,
They are hearts tied together by love’s hands.

Play your roles with love
Father, son, brother, partner…
Wear these names like a crown of stars.
Not with dominance,
But with the strength of gentle hands,
With the quiet force of a shoulder that bears,
A heart that listens.
Vulnerability is not a weakness,
It is the marrow of connection,
The place where love lives and breathes.

Oh, dear man,
Don’t be a ghost of a father,
A name whispered in longing,
A shadow in a child’s dreams.
Children need roots to hold them firm,
And wings to lift them high.
Be the guidance in their storms,
The steady light on a darkened shore.
In your arms, they learn to trust,
To dream, to become.
Be their hero, not perfect,
But present.

Do not lose yourself to anger,
That wildfire that devours forests of peace.
Let it pass through like the storm it is,
Rage, then rest, then rise again,
But never let it take your soul.
Meet it with understanding,
For the world is a fragile thing,
And love is always the better sword.

Don’t chase applause,
For it is the fleeting chorus of hollowed hands.
Seek truth instead,
Sing your own song,
Unapologetically yours.
There is no peace in pretense,
There is only weariness.
Live authentically,
Raw, flawed, radiant.

Choose your battles,
Do not draw your sword for every slight.
Wisdom is knowing when to fight
And when to let silence be your answer.
Restraint is not weakness,
It is the quiet power of kings.

Give, dear man,
Give with open hands,
But know when to rest.
Life is not a scorecard,
It is a dance of give and take,
A river that drys and flows.
In generosity, there is beauty,
But let balance be your guide,
For even oceans need shores.

And if love is not returned,
Do not wither, do not fall.
Some chapters are meant for growth,
Not permanence.
Let them go with grace,
And walk unburdened by what was.
Detachment is a kind of freedom,
A breath of peace when the weight is too much.

Do not linger where the air is poison.
When toxicity suffocates,
Leave with your spirit intact.
Boundaries are not walls,
They are gardens,
Places where your soul can bloom.
Seek light, seek life.
Don’t stay where your laughter dies.

Life, dear man,
Is a song waiting to be sung,
Art waiting for your hands.
Be the artist of your existence,
The poet of your days.
You are more than breath and bone,
You are a force, a dream, a maker of worlds.

Wake up.
Step into your becoming.
This life is yours,
A Limitless and glorious scene.
Write your truth,
Shape your legacy with love,
And dance boldly into tomorrow.

This, dear man,
Is your story.

@okelododdychitchats

Lady in Black

“Mimi ni wa kucum, oh, scrap that, my bad, I meant Mimi ni wa kucome.’”
I was raised in the village. Well, not really a village because Rongo qualifies as a town, but Nairobians will still call it Moshadha, or ushago, or something else altogether. Forget it.
I grew up in Rongo for most of my childhood and only moved to Nairobi for campus. That’s right, I went to Multimedia University of Kenya in Karen, Nairobi County. Before anyone comes at me with, “Multimedia iko Rongai, bro,” before we argue, check your maps! The lower fence of Multimedia separates Nairobi from Rongai in Kajiado County. So yes, I schooled in Karen and stayed in Karen for four years. Si ni Mimi nawashow.

I bring up this whole kukucome thingie because when I first got into the Nairobi scene, matatu touts kept shouting “Tao Amboseli,” I didn’t catch it right, so I genuinely thought every estate in Nairobi had an Amboseli, just like almost every hood has a Kwa Chief in it. Turns out, they were saying “Tao hamusini,” as in, fare to town was 50 bob from wherever the pickup point was. Today, I’m in one of the moderately pimped Mapepe mats of Utimo Sacco. It’s carrying Tao Hamusini from Umoja Jeska stage. It’s Almost full. People love it because the driver here, knows how to dodge traffic….I’m sitting in the back, on the left window seat, giving me a clear view of everyone getting in, and, of course, judging them. Before I’m done profiling my fellow passengers, a lady slides in beside me. She’s today’s topic. This is udaku for free, feel free to share it with your crew. I hear y’all love udaku, so buckle up.

She’s in a sleek black dress, paired with not-so-new maroon Nike TNs, probably Kamukunji stock, judging by the soles, which haven’t been worn down by exposure to air (yes, I noticed the shoes when she stepped in, don’t ask). Her makeup is flawless, compensating for her questionable style. Thick lenses with frames hugging her round face sit perfectly on her.
Her eyes? Twin pools of wonder and mystery, they speak in whispers, framed by lashes as soft as a lover’s caress.
Her lips? Succulent and juicy.
Her nose? Perfectly symmetrical.
Her face is a masterpiece on a perfectly sculpted body.
Her hips don’t lie. When she sits, our hips meet, and I feel something, a desire mixed with comfort and curiosity mingling with hunger. Unsettling and oddly familiar.

I don’t know her name, but I know she smells nice, her dreadlocks are freshly done, clean, and not a hint of dusty brown in sight.
The bus starts moving, and she turns to me.
“You look good,” she says.
So do you, I think.
“You smell nice,” she adds.
So do you, I think again.
Match made in heaven, I convince myself, until she starts talking. And talking. And talking. A relentless stream of words. This river has no banks. Suddenly, I’m not so sure. I reconsider my initial instincts about asking for her name or number.

She pulls out a Juicy Fruit from her Gussii bag (yes, that’s what it says, probably meant to say Gucci). The way she chews it… carefree, wild, tasting life with abandon. It’s unbothered. It’s maddening….

We are in Town now,

When we reach past Mfangano Street, she turns.
“What’s your name?”
I tell her.
She smiles and walks away, heading toward Luthuli Avenue.

I watch her walk. That dhudha (that’s ass in some local sheng language.) That graceful stride. That hypnotic sway.
And for a fleeting moment, I wonder if I could’ve traded all that talking and careless chewing for the simple joy of watching her disappear into the crowd…

I almost get knocked down by a bike. As I snap back to reality, I realize it’s partly my fault. This part of town is always packed with people and matatus. When you mix those two, it feels like the sum of mchanga wa bahari, a bit of an exaggeration, but downtown Nairobi CBD is always a madhouse. I apologize to the boda guy and keep walking toward Nyayo House, with the lady in black still on my mind… I’ll tell you this, if you meet someone in a matatu or anywhere else who catches your interest, don’t wait around. Go for it. Take the risk! The guilt of not trying is way worse than whatever the outcome might be. I wish I’d gotten her number, even if it ended up on that list of contacts I don’t talk to. At least I’d have it, and what I choose to do with it is on me.

All day, I can’t stop thinking about the lady in black. She’s in my thoughts, even in the words I’m about to say. I try to dodge the usual chaos of the crowded streets, so I take a detour towards Kencom, then City Hall. It’s quieter here, with less hustle, and the buildings are lined up neatly, giving off this calm vibe. It’s the kind of peace that lets me think about the lady in black without anything pulling my attention away.

As I get closer to Nyayo House, I notice the street next to Cardinal Otunga and Holy Basilica is lined with Kienyeji ladies, each with an eye on the crowd. They’re advertising cyber services, not with signs, but with their words “bro, cyber, printing…” They’re looking for people who might need a printout or scan before heading into Nyayo House. Their smiles say they’ve seen it all, and they walk with the kind of confidence only Nairobi’s hustle can teach.

I don’t need any cyber services today, so I head straight to the NEMA offices to meet the Nairobi County Coordinator. Her office is warm and welcoming, and one day, I’ll ask her for an interview. But today, I’m here for something else.

Catch you later, guys!

@okelododdychitchats

The Quiet Lies

It’s early, just before dawn,
when the world should be quiet,
but there’s this restless hum,
like something’s brewing,
just out of reach,
just under the surface.

That’s how these stories start,
not with dragons or heroes,
but with real people
getting swallowed whole
by a world too busy to notice.

See how they twist it?
An abduction becomes
a headline.
A headline becomes
a show.
And suddenly, tragedy is entertainment.

“Mara, they weren’t even abducted,”
As if a smile in a photo somehow proves you’re okay.
“Look, they’re well-fed. They’re fine.”

But are they?
What does freedom mean
when fear follows you home
and sleeps in your bed?

Did they really have to die
for you to believe they were abducted?
Do they need to spill their trauma
for all to see?
Do they have to cry
for their truth to matter?
Isn’t the fear in their eyes,
the shake in their voice,
already enough?

Say it,
and the sycophants will twist your words,
speaking with honeyed lies,
shrugging it off…
They’re just politicians anyway.

They’ll tell you it’s complicated.
They’ll say, “Things are being handled.”
They’ll dress their deceit
in smooth, practiced tones,
their voices bending like shadows
on the evening news.

And behind the scenes,
nothing changes.
Because the truth isn’t a press release.
It’s what happens when the cameras turn off.
It’s in the silence between the headlines.
It’s in the questions no one’s answering.

And while we chase distractions,
real problems rot in the dark.
Borders fall apart.
Hunger gnaws at homes
too far from the spotlight.

This isn’t chaos by accident.
It’s chaos by design.
A game of look over here
while they tear everything down over there.

Don’t let them trick you.
Don’t trust the shiny things.
This world is full of mirrors,
and they’re hoping you won’t notice
the strings behind the curtain.

Every headline is a magic trick.
Every outrage is a smoke bomb.
And while we argue
over who said what
and who’s to blame,
they keep moving the pieces, writing new rules for a game we didn’t agree to play.

Wake up.
Families are broken.
Communities are bleeding.
And all they give us
are statements wrapped in lies
and promises that disappear
the moment we blink.

Look deeper.
Ask harder questions.
Don’t settle for their version of the story.
They’ll tell you It’s too complicated for us to understand,
but that’s just another trick.

This isn’t a show.
It’s real.
And we deserve better
than lights, cameras, and soundbites.

We deserve answers.
We deserve justice.
We deserve the truth,
no matter how messy it is,
no matter how much it hurts.

So stop.
Think.
Push back.
Don’t just watch from the sidelines
while they play us for fools.

We have the power to end the show.
We have the power to write a new story.
One where fear doesn’t win.
One where hope doesn’t get sold for headlines.

This isn’t freedom.
It’s a performance.
And it’s time we tear it down and start again.

Because real life isn’t a script.
It’s ours to shape.
And justice,
justice isn’t a show.
It’s a fight worth having.

#ENDABDUCTIONSKE

@okelododdychitchats

I Remember

I Remember This

I remember that day like it was yesterday,
When time just… stopped.
Everything felt heavy, like carrying sacks of maize on my back,
And your words, they hit me,
Soft but sharp, cutting through the quiet.
It was the 31st.
That date? It stayed with me,
Stuck in my chest like a thorn.
It made me thirsty, not for water,
But for answers, for understanding,
For some kind of meaning that never came.

We walked, remember?
Under those jacaranda trees,
Purple petals falling like tiny blessings
Or maybe tears we couldn’t cry.
The wind? It whispered secrets,
Or maybe I imagined that too.
Everything about that moment was a blur,
But your voice?
Your voice was clear,
Soft, steady,
Like a song from long ago.

You told me about her,
And I felt it.
Every. Single. Word.
Like the weight of rain-soaked clothes
Clinging to my skin.
I whispered a prayer that day,
Not because I knew what to say,
But because silence felt heavier than speaking.
“God, please… please guide her home.
Hold her close. Let her rest.”

Ooh, Yesu Kristo!
My heart,
It broke wide open,
And your name slipped from my lips
Along with tears I didn’t even realize were falling.
Grief, they say, is the price of love,
And we,
We paid in full that day.
Every tear,
Every ache,
Every silent scream.

Loss sits in your chest,
Heavy like a stone you can’t put down.
But even stones wear smooth over time.
Grace,
That’s what you taught me,
Grace shapes us,
Even when we’re broken.

May her soul find peace,
That kind of deep, deep peace
That feels like warm sun on tired shoulders,
Like a calm lake at dusk.
And I’ll carry her,
Her memory,
Her laughter,
Her love,
Because love doesn’t die.
It just… changes.
It becomes wind,
And light,
And breath.

Osiepa,
You’re still here, In the stories we tell, In the way we laugh even when it hurts, In the quiet moments When memories sit with us
Like a fire we gather around for warmth.

I remember.
And I always will.

@okelododdychitchats

It’s 2025

2024 was one hell of a year.

It started with so much hope. I had plans, big plans, to leave certain things behind, and to be honest, I did. But it wasn’t all smooth sailing. The struggles came too, hard and fast, but somehow, God showed up every single time.

I’m not the kind of person to stand in front of a church and give a testimony, not me. But today, I felt tempted. I’m writing this right here in church, and it’s probably the fifth time I’ve been here this whole year. One of my goals for 2024 was to go to church every Sunday. I tried, I really did. January was great, I was consistent. But then life happened, and somewhere along the way, I got lost. I try again in 2025

So now, I’m sitting at the back, on the right-hand side of the church. I’ve never sat here before, and I can’t help but notice how full it is today. It’s never been like this. Seeing so many people here, God’s children gathered under one roof, it makes me happy. This place feels alive, like a marketplace of blessings. And I’m here to claim mine, to carry me through 2025.

I’m not writing a long list of goals this time. I’ve learned something about life, it doesn’t follow a formula. There’s no perfect plan. All I know is that the effort I’m going to put in this year will get me where I need to be. That’s it. Simple.

I don’t have much to say, really. I’m just thankful. Thankful that I’m here, alive, and hopeful again. Thankful for a chance to start over.

So goodbye, 2024. You were tough, you were beautiful, you were messy. But it’s time to move on.

Here’s to 2025. Let’s go.

And this is my Prayer,

I know I messed up along the way
But God, just give me a chance to say
I am trouble, I am a f up
But give me another chance to make up

I’ve made mistakes, I won’t deny
But please, don’t let this be goodbye
I’m begging you, hear my plea
I know I can be better, just wait and see

I’ve stumbled and fallen, lost my way
But I’m asking for your grace today
I’ve let you down, I’ve let myself down
But I promise, I won’t wear this frown

I know I don’t deserve your love
But I’m hoping for a sign from above
To guide me back onto the right path
To escape this cycle of wrath

I know I’ve caused pain and hurt
But I’m willing to do the work
To make amends, to right my wrongs
To sing a new and hopeful song

I may be broken, I may be flawed
But I believe in the power of God
To grant me forgiveness, to show me the way
To a brighter and better day

I know I don’t deserve a second chance
But please, just give me one more dance
To prove that I can change and grow
To show that I can bloom and glow

I am a sinner, I am a saint
I am a puzzle, missing a paint
But with your help, I can be whole
With your guidance, I can reach my goal

So please, God, just give me a chance
To show that I can rise and dance
To show that I can mend my ways
And live out my remaining days

I know I messed up along the way
But God, just give me a chance to say
I am ready to face my fears
And dry up all these tears

I know I am a f up, I’ve been trouble
But I believe I can burst this bubble
With your grace, with your love
I know I can rise above

This is my prayer, my plea
To be the person you want me to be
To walk the path you’ve set for me
To live a life that’s pure and free

So please, God, just hear my cry
And give me a chance to try
To be the best version of me
To live a life that’s full and free

I know I don’t deserve it, I know I’m not perfect
But with your help, I know I can resurrect
My spirit, my soul, my heart
And make a fresh new start

So please, God, just give me a chance
To prove that I can advance
To a place of peace and light
To a future that’s bright

I know I messed up along the way
But God, just give me a chance to pray
To ask for forgiveness, to seek redemption
To find a path to salvation

I know I am a f up, I’ve caused trouble
But I believe I can burst this bubble
With your mercy, with your grace
I know I can find my place

So please, God, just give me a chance
To mend my ways, to make amends
To create a life that’s true
To become the person you always knew

I know I don’t deserve it, I know I’m not worth it
But with your love, I know I can unearth it
The strength, the courage, the will
To break free from this endless drill

So please, God, just give me a chance
To find my purpose, to enhance
My life, my soul, my being
To finally find that feeling

Of peace, of joy, of love
That only comes from above
So please, don’t turn away
Just give me another chance today.

@okelododdychitchats