The Revolution will not be Televised.

If I go to bed tonight, what will I wake up to. If I slide away into a world of dreams, which step will i shoe.

The changes we seek, the paths we lay, the contrast of meek, the wraths our way, which pore shall lead us astray.

If we decide on what tomorrow shall become, so fast. Then we’ve lost the essence of what life is worth.

Every stone, every grain of sand, shifts. Shifts to form what we call our earth. Same way our sweat, strength and weaknesses, form our worth.

No war is won without strategy. No life forgoes tragedy. Rise and fall, to and fro, we guide our own fallacy.

We have to be meticulous in every plan. We have to be indigenous in every thought. Or else, we ignorantly execute every man. We void every fought.

The ratio of rationale that beckons our intellect, is only summoned by the hosts of our regret.

We once saw, so now we yearn. We once grew, now we groan. Those exploits of Alexander have not left a scar deep enough to tingle our spine. That’s why we don’t think, our concern is mainly ‘yours’ and ‘mine’.

If manuals like Mein Kampf have taught us nothing, then we are not fit to label progress. For even the most vicious, knew that planning, equates progress.

So now, we plan.

Return to our boards, seeks our architectural souls, and reconstruct. Pursue ignorance, with tiny drops of knowledge. Until it’s soaked in the ocean of Luther’s dream.

Man, is originally tribal. So this new wave, this new world order of togetherness, is something we have to puzzle on.

Bit, by bit.

The revolt is never televised, only the aftermath. Egypt wasn’t built, it was a dream of pharaohs. Greece was a careful spill from the glass of Ceasars.

If we are to be accomplished, on one accord, then we need to return to the one true base of integrity.


Nevertheless, beware. Be thou aware, that the same letters that spell ‘silent’ and ‘listen’, also accomodate ‘tinsel’.

Beware, or the efforts of revolt would have been for nought.


Dry Pen.

Through all the sweat, the scare

The heaves of breath, the feat

The Nausea, the pain

Dear Lord, guide my hands,

So I can write again.


The Cold.

A view of the motherland’s bosom cannot be faltered.

Irreparable, are the expanses of her contours.

In a world where the wind owns our Marilyns, how dare we leave virgins outside for the prowl.

Inch by inch, we alter life as we know it.

And then we ponder why blisters are forged from our unknown.

Perfection was not to be our destiny.

Progress, the only target we should harbor.

Fears of fortitude, pronounced more by uncertainties.

History, the only Bible we have refused to read.

From my wishes to return to the ink that gave me breathe, to my curse that makes me run from the thoughts in my head.

How dare I blame the house that I bought with hard earned Shillings.

For covering me craftily, with my grudge and despair.

You never choose to be writer, you just are.

Wish me another destiny, I just can’t.

Man’s nature, by design, is to retreat, if he hath no spear in hand.

We’re inclined to dominate with tools, of a chosen kind.

Mine, a pen, a pad, and a thought.

As the pen bleeds its ink, the cloud of thoughts propel into a cathedral.

Behold! The manner sent from man’s brain, may sometimes stumble the feet of Angels.

More so, we remain more powerful than they could ever be, and we could ever know.

But the slightest prick and we retreat so far that it bulldozes our faint strength.

We, I, are so scared of losing so we don’t even try.

Though the afternoon sun comes to clear the horizon, our morning fog endeavors to shield the wonder.

No wonder.

No wonder our strongest, our perseverest, our champions, have all got a gloom.

Stevie lost his eyes, Basquiat lost his head, Cobain lost his life.

The more we lose, the more humanity gains.

What a cold.

Poetry ( the girl that took my soul ).

It was supposed to be a prayer, but there’s a lot more at stake.
That’s why I’m not kneeling, we’re talking face to face.
You could sit if you want, this might take a minute.
But you’re timeless right? So what the hell is a minute.

For every cringe in my timid, and every dent on my civic
For every thought process or shade patterns that I diminish
Every spark that I livid, and in every dark that I ribbit
Here’s my heart on my sleeves, they carry all that I exhibit

You came to me as a blank cheque. I was wowed with awesome ideas
At the same time, filled my pen with ink of tears
So with every signanture I broke away a piece of my heart
Even though I want to, I just couldn’t completely tear you apart

You’ve been everything I adore, and all that I fear
Every milestone of conquers, and every renewed fear
Every star, and all the galaxies I envision
At the same time, the loophole in those visions

You’ve put me out there for too long that I need to exfoliate
Whatever the deal was, we need to renegotiate
Dear God, you gave the girl that took my soul
Now I ask you, can I at least ”gain the world?”

Andreá Fellini *2013*Copyright!

What Have We Become?


Have we evolved to be nasty or nice?
Have we become more appreciative, or are we bundled by price?
Have we dived into unplumbed sewage of truths, or are we surfing on a surface of lies?
How unfathomable is our super-sized mega-dome of egos?
How meek is our blush?
How loud is our torts of disagreements?
How subtle is our hush?

How often do we alter definitions, just to cloud what we feel.
How far do we stretch to find reasonable doubts, just to shroud how we kill.
How trendy have we made rebellion?
So well fashioned that the point is lost.
How skeptical have our fingers become?
Touch not, so our levels of ‘hygiene’ not be crossed.

How much do we care?
How much, do we really care?
How well do we listen?
How well, do we really pay attention?

If the progress of mankind was based on the level of our ‘give-a-fuck’, then we’d be doomed.
Ironically, we scramble for every little recognition. Check the ‘flags on our moon’.
The only reason we’ve survived for this long is because; in a cranny somewhere…lays a young soul with the potentials of answering this question:

What have we become?

Andreá Fellini *2013*Copyright!

The Curse, Unimagined. (pt. 2)


As HE stepped down from the mountain.,
He carried with him a Gift, a stone tablet
Heavy with the inscription

At the foot of the abundance
Hoist with impatience,
they waited
He approached, beckoning for relief
For his arms were wary stiff

But even at that valley
They stood on their eminence
Arms bound by comfort
For they all weighed on their own tablet,

Andreá Fellini *2013*Copyright!

Life (pt. 2)

As beautiful as LIFE is,
The vague angles that it anchors are at a constant tremble.
Thus, its fragility.

This is the birthplace of our ‘Vulnerable’.

Andreá Fellini *2013*Copyright!

What Good is a Writer?


What good is a writer?
If he can’t fight. Strife. Define.
Help to underline the intrigues of a beautiful life.
If he can’t hide. Confide. Defy
The Imaginations we have lost while punctuating our archives.

What good is a writer?
If he can’t share. Be clear. Declare
The injustices within so the world beware.
If he can’t turn. Reform. And warn.
So we get a better truth so loud that we trigger the norm.

What good is a writer?
If he can’t maim. Tame. Maintain.
The rational debates that solicits our brain.
If he can’t curb. Curve. Love.
Paint a picture so delicate like the feathers of a dove.

What good is a writer?
If he can’t taunt. Scorn. And burn.
Deliver to virgin ears the rawness without censoring cunt.
If he can’t see. Receive. Perceive.
The agony of weeds surrounded by the trees.

What good is a writer?
If he can’t guard. Scar. Disbar.
Break far from the sceptre of the world’s bazaar.
Break far from the caviar that keeps our minds in jars.
Curb. Curve. And love.

What good?


Andreá Fellini  &  Pete Armetta

A Sway of Passion


She watches, as he sits in his chair
Orchestra, the waves in his hair
His fingers find their way to the grip of her pores
And starts digging…… She gasps in awe

He begins slow,
with bit and pieces
smiles and wishes
Colors and melodies

And gradually syncs with the beat of heart
Dear God, how could he come so far

So she sways….

Her heart pines in his rhythm of jazz
Naughty strings played with elegance and class

It builds momentum and falls right on her heart
First it had her ears, now it owns her heart

Thus, her sway…

Dancing in the breeze
Her waist tilts, fine-tuning her seams
She hums to the hymns like she wrote it herself
O yes,

She wrote it herself.

She swayed for hope
She swayed for joy
She swayed for life
A Sway of Passion

The music levitates and builds her through
And with a glide so smooth, her heart is renewed

One day, she will be in his arms
One day, she will carry his charm
One day, she will find herself that ticket
But until then, she sways with a secret.

Andreá Fellini *2013*Copyright!