GEORGE THE TIRED POET

📸 I don't Own any Rights. Model : Hannah A Riot Of Stars. ( Ode to Hannah ) Hannah, your name sounds like a Kadodi drum  Struck on top of Wanale Hill,   There where the sun spills golden rays over the hill,   And the air carries the scent of coffee.   Your laughter— Oh, it is a sudden riot of stars,   Scattering light across my shadowy day.   I see you in the way River Manafwa moves,   Steady but wild, carving paths no one expects.   This isn’t just another year, Hannah.   It’s you, growing sharper, brighter,   Like the weaver bird’s nest,   Defying gravity, weaving wonders from straws.   Your eyes hold stories—   Of matoke and malewa,   Of late-night talks,   Of dreams that dance like Arms Of the Mbale Clock Tower.   Today, I don’t wish you candles or a cake,   But moments that taste like your courage, ...

Dear Muse, See, Yesterday I tried calling you, I tried all your lines And all possible means of communication, But alas, I couldn't reach you. I remember, I sat down and wrote a love Poem, I wrote it for you, I wrote it with a purpose. I wrote, "I will Buy You a Plastic Ring". Not because I was happy, I was scared of losing you. You see, I woke up today with your message, You were greeting me, I swear, I sighed with relief. I knew, I didn't lose you, I had you and you got me. I swear, I cried - I cried when you told me that you are sick, You told me that you are on medication, I sighed with relief, I thought that would be better, And I wished you a quicker recovery. Dear Muse, Hope you are well, Forgive me if your name is what I forgot to spell, But I will use a quill To avoid ink spill, I will write a poem with it And still wish you a quicker recovery. © George The Tired Poet 🇺🇬  August 10th, 2025. #PoeticSundays.

Dear Mom,  I know I haven't been perfect- I have been with short comings, But listen to this love poem. Once you told me make friends- If I didn't I would be lonely for life. Mom I tried, But the friends I made keep on stubbing me. I took up the second option, I fell in love, Tried all my best  But the girls I fall for disappoint. I have written love poems For each of them I fell for They never appreciate  But I kept on trying. I have tried writing Poetry, Poetry for the love I have tried, Poetry for the nation I love, But my poems are chocking me. I thought I would be rich now, But I have been betrayed. I thought I would be loved now, But I have been disappointed. Dear Mom, Hear this Poem, Call it 'Poem 1040', But I, call it a love poem. © Ochago George William. @George The Tired Poet 🇺🇬  2nd August, 2025 #PoeticSaturdays.

Somewhere In Mbale City. 📸   Shot by George The Tired Poet. (Ode to My new Age) Dear Mayor, I know you are too busy, When you get time have a walk  Along Pallisa Road at night, Walk with your phone at hand. If you can't do that, Make your daughter walk there alone, Even as early as 7:30pm, Let's see if she reaches home on intact pants. Just imagine students  Leaving School as late as 7:30pm Because they had a class project, How would they walk past this dark street? Without feeling the claws of the night predator. I know you don't care, Can you imagine your 24year Old sister, Walking past this street late at 7:30pm Because she was held back to collect a class project from her Students. Would she teach with confidence again? Dear Mayor, I know you are too busy, When you get time have a walk  Along Pallisa Road at night, Walk it alone please. © George William Ochago. @George The Tired Poet 🇺🇬  25th May, 2025. #PoeticSundays.

📸 Sharon. Dear Valentine! I know tomorrow is so perfect, I know it is love we celebrate, But I am scared, I am scared I may lose you another. I have been worried, To be frank,  I worry a lot, What if someone brought you flowers, And took you- I will lose you. Dear Valentine, Even with my flows, Just accept that - I, love you with all I have, I wish to hold your hand this Valentine. Happy Valentine Dear. © George The Tired Poet. 13th February, 2025.

Dear Valentine, Yesterday, I wrote a love Poem, I wrote it for widowed mothers, I wrote it for Orphaned children, I wrote it for scared men, I wrote it for Poets, I wrote it for men shot on the streets. I wrote it for worried writers. I wrote it for You. I wrote that,  They should forgive us, They should stop killing us For speaking against the wrongs. I wrote that my brothers are scared, They are scared because they're dying, They are dying graduating- Graduating for jobs that are Chinese, Russians and the old. I wrote another poem, I wrote that they should release all political prisoners, They should stop arresting political protestors, They should not exercise guns on everyone. Dear Valentine, Yesterday, I wrote that  I will love you if the nation gets free, Because I am scared that you may lose me, I may die anyway, I may get shot for writing poetry. I may get detained by the military. And today, I may write again. © George William Ochago  @ George The Tir...

📸 Photo Credit Emilie(Emilie In the Picture). (My Letters to Emilie). Dear Emilie, I know tough times come, but We wrestle them times, We wrestle with a couple of brains. And that, is always a success. Emilie, I believe I wronged  Some people so hard Including you, but That is not why I am here. I realized, today is 29th January😌, And I thought I should apologize, By writing something That can make you want to cry. Cry for nothing you don't know. Just as hard this year started, I don't have a gift for you, I only got my brain and a pen And I want to write Poetry on how we met, How you first saw me on the street, How you attended that Poetry night- In Busamaga. I also want to write, How you lie, The lies that keep me hopeful, The lies that I have learned to lie, And I think today is also another lie. Without any tithe, Allow me to say, Today, you are a year older  Than yesterday- Because you were a year younger than today. So, it is your Birthday. Happy Birthday B...

Model: Marrice (Echoes of the Heart). I miss writing, I miss writing about her, I miss writing on her Or even with her. I miss my muse, I miss sending midnight messages, I miss typing- Goodnight Babe. I miss, feeling stressed if I didn't write about her. I miss my pen, I miss the smell of ink, I miss crying on her, I miss crying with her. I miss the metaphors, Those lines when I told her I love her in Poetry. I miss my Muse. © George The Tired Poet. @Kreatives' Parlor. 25th January, 2025. 23:14Hrs. #PoeticSaturdays.