Talking to myself through poetry
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We are in abundance
Yet we complain of darkness.
Inside pits, that are shallow;
We hide behind the shadow.
Our melanin we pour ore
Under the hot scorching sun;
Hot-cakes fly like birds, to lands
Where they can be better brands.
Leaving behind, the half baked
To dictate, the give and take,
Talking; whereas, as critics
We bury the beams and rays
Yet we beg for candlelights
From the waxes we burnt out.
So high and loud were the screams At the point of confusion Many would wish the tension Was another scary dream. None cared about documents…
I followed flying butterflies as I craved But they landed me deep into a grave I bled right on the floor not just the pain…
Used to think a lot More of lust, no fault A big bum, big breast Pretty face, white teeth… Yet, one met no one Wired…
A special thank you to all philanthropists From east to west and north to south; Up the sky; freely the littlest of birds fly In…
Wow!
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A bitter lament
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