A poet in a white coat, with
A stethoscope wrapped around my neck,
Tightly holding the pen in the
Palm of my hand.
Injecting the serum of wisdom into your
mind,
To fight the insane thoughts you have.
Breathing life into your rib cage,
To resurrect the broken heart.
The son of art in deliverance of
The breeze of time. Saving souls,
I am heaven's bank account.
Counting blessings from birth
Until the end of time;
With my watch moving anticlockwise,
Retracing the footsteps of life-
To live under orders.
Healing the sick society.
Where brothers wrap their hopes
In newspaper pages. Those daily
s(s)o(u)n(n)s(s) that never shines.
Covered by the mist of the peace pipe.
Uncovered thighs of our sisters,
Used for bait, to hook those evil deeds.
Feeding on fornication, destitute young
Queens bragging about those king size
Beds they are slaving on.
The same street corners that we piss on,
Are the ones giving them a piece
Of bread to survive for the day. Daily
bread!
I have seen a couple of them.
Blurry pictured memories,
For eyes were drowning in tears,
But yet I have seen them.
Those "nyaope" kids, emerged from their
Roots in search of a brighter future.
Some had wrecked ideas of burning
Joints, intoxicating the vessels in order
To attain light at a higher level.
Those heavy suit cases they used
To carry from high school,
No longer suit their standards anymore.
Their only pursuit is to carry
Broken glasses and torn papers,
In order to ironically recycle their lives,
And paper mash their dreams into reality,
How hard it is for them to take a walk
Into their comfort zones. Parents! Waiting
For merit certificates. To their surprise,
Death certificates are knocking on their
door steps,
For their sons and daughters are married
To the fantasy of life.
Decorating their bodies with tattoos,
Piercing their skins,
They never get enough of pain,
Even for those trying to open the third
eye,
Sitting on top of bibles, meditating to
statues.
Chanting senseless mantras, seeking hope
In
hallow hearts of painted gods on canvases,
For they failed to see God with the two
Eyes they were given.
I have seen them.
I have seen them affiliating to secret
societies
With the blood of their loved ones,
In the name of sacrifice, Oh poor Azania.
Teach your sons and daughters to learn.
When the sun is laid to rest. Let them
Use their daily sweat to nourish their skin
pores.
And absorb the light of a day that is yet
to come
Inside of their dying skeletons.
Let them conceive the Holy Spirit, and give
Birth to the gospel. We are sick and tired
Of carrying Body bags of sins,
waiting for the train that is yet to
come with joy in the morning.
When we taught our hearts to accept
that the morning only comes with daily
sad news and sicknesses. It is sad that we
Only have to write poem as an epitaph
To farewell another dead soul, laid to
rest.
Forgive them oh father, for they know not
Of what they are do. Give them a chance
To rise from dust again. Let them write
Themselves into existence. The book of life
Shall guide only those that read for a
positive change.
See, we do not write poems as gimmicks, but
As food for thought, hence we pick them
From poetree, to feed our inner child.
Let us learn to moonwalk into light with the
stars.
This might be our last dance, my people..
The
second coming of mankind…
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©Poetic2mi
2015
