The Dawn is Mine

 I wake ....

matatus cough the city awake,

light cracks the tin roofs, and I count the coins like prayers.

It seems like my dawn will never rise to greet me like before;

the sun looks the same, but I feel older,

dreams slipping through my fingers like sand.

As I grow older, so does my dream age from my grasp 

What was bright at twenty feels distant at thirty,

and the map I drew in my head is missing roads.

If dreams were valid ... if they had to be justified ..

what should I do to achieve them?

Answer me?

Listen ... I’ve learned, the city does not give pity,

it gives chances to those who keep knocking.

So I stand, shoulders heavy but straight,

I polish small wins like coins until they shine.

I hustle with honor; I refuse the easy lie.

I trade bitterness for plan: one small step, again and again.

When doubt shouts, I shout back ... louder: I’m not finished.

When hunger speaks in my bones, I feed my skill ...not just my belly.

I barter time for knowledge, time for trust.

I keep my hands clean even when the door is greasy with bribes,

because my future must be bought with dignity, not shame.

I need Aura not magic,

And that takes practice.

It’s the way I hold my head on days I have nothing,

the way I speak as if I already belong,

the way I give without emptying myself,

the way I keep a small notebook of wins and read it when storms come.

So I plant: a little money, a little skill, a little courage.

I water it with discipline and refuse to uproot it for someone else’s comfort.

I build a circle ...one friend who pushes, one mentor who listens, one neighbor who trades work for hope.

I sleep, breathe, stand, and rise again.

My dawn may come late, or it may come slow,

but it will come ... because I refused to kneel to fear.

I am still here. I am still trying.

And that is enough to make the sun look twice.

And when I whisper to the sky,

“If dreams were valid, what should I do to achieve them?”

The wind answers with silence,

but silence is not empty ...

it carries echoes of those who rose before me.

They say,

“Start where you stand,

with the little in your hand.

The seed does not wait for perfect soil,

it fights through rocks, it splits concrete.

You too, can bloom in broken ground.”

So I take my hunger,

and turn it into hustle.

I take my scars,

and make them into stories that teach.

I take my failures,

and wear them like armor,

because even defeat becomes wisdom

if I refuse to bow.

Yes ...the road is cruel.

Yes ... corruption mocks me from billboards,

its fat belly laughing as I chase coins.

But I will not sell my soul for shortcuts,

I will not trade my dignity for crumbs.

I will not bribe my children’s tomorrow.

Instead, I walk ... slower maybe,

but steady, with clean hands.

I fight ... with pen, with sweat, with song,

because being human means finding joy

even when life feels like drought.

And one day,

when the dawn finally rises to greet me,

I will look back at the long night

and smile.

Because even in the dark,

I carried my own light.

So hear me now ...

I am not broken, I am becoming.

I am not poor, I am planting.

I am not voiceless, I am rising.

This dawn ...

may come crawling, may come crawling slow,

but it will come.

And when it comes, it will not just greet me 

it will salute me,

because I refused to quit,

because I carried the light through the night,

because I made my own morning!

The dawn is mine.

The dream is mine.

The future.... is ours.