The Confessor

I have heard the fame of her beauty
And I, of notes taken of her many virtues
Which has plaqued the walls of my heart
Whereon I became subject to her fair countenance
And at the wand of her beauty my obedience I tender
Alas, I am the confessed and the confessor of her beauty

She is the beat and men in dance revolves round about her
Like the stars revolves round about the moon light
Some said, she came from the province of the goddesses
Perchance a god in disguise mated her mother thus formed she
With an irresistible beauty to plaque the hearts of men with desire
Truly, she is a secret and lovely thing to look upon
And having the likeness of a goddess even the gods gave her gifts
Oh, she is a wonder to behold; a bright garland of blooming flowers
And a crown of gold upon the head of him whom she chose for a husband
Alas, I am the confessed and the confessor of her beauty

Her beauty radiates with disease, pestilence and sin
Fixing your eyes of desire on her irresistible beauty

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poem by Lightcheerful Briggs
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It Blows No Man's Good

Shall my sorrow for one day turn into laughter?
Who is he that has prophesied? You false prophet hold it to yourself.
Have all not developed teeth? Yet teeth development remains a dream to me.
When shall I become a man? When?
Even then manhood is struggle.
I crept and toiled daily for subsistence as though the cursed serpent,
Of cause nothing different from that;
I solicited for arms, truly it were better I never had become a human.
For only but mocking awaited me at every door,
As I tottered and slumped along looking for safety but truly there was nowhere.
The church yard was the only accepted home
With cloudy and whirling face I struggled collapsingly
Help! Help! There was none ready amidst able men.
Oh! Have the hearts of men seized from pity?
And so I sojourned and bore the crucifix alone.
Who else can sing of my song? None I tell you understands the Rub-A-dub of my life;
It is a song meant for vagabonds like me, I am a vagabond.
My song is a song of elegy; it teaches of the agony of my life.
But truly only the victim knows the rhythm of my music.
I am this victim; a marauding and wandering beast

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poem by Lightcheerful Briggs
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It Shall Be No More

Shall my sorrow for one day turn into laughter?
Who is he that has prophesied? You false prophet hold it to yourself.
Have all not developed teeth? Yet teeth development remains a dream to me.
When shall I become a man? When?
Even then manhood is struggle.
I crept and toiled daily for subsistence as though the cursed serpent,
Of cause nothing different from that;
I solicited for arms, truly it were better I never had become a human.
For only but mocking awaited me at every door,
As I tottered and slumped along looking for safety but truly there was nowhere.
The church yard was the only accepted home
With cloudy and whirling face I struggled collapsingly
Help! Help! There was none ready amidst able men.
Oh! Have the hearts of men seized from pity?
And so I sojourned and bore the crucifix alone.
Who else can sing of my song? None I tell you understands the Rub-A-dub of my life;
It is a song meant for vagabonds like me, I am a vagabond.
My song is a song of elegy; it teaches of the agony of my life.
But truly only the victim knows the rhythm of my music.
I am this victim; a marauding and wandering beast

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poem by Lightcheerful Briggs
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Goodbye Mine M.j.

A "Stranger in Moscow" told me that you've gone!
But is it true that you've gone my M.J.?
And with tears in my eyes I say goodbye my M.J.
You who feeds the eyes and the ears
And has graced our African soil
But why did you have to go, you "Smooth criminal"
When you know "They don't care about us"
Tell me, who will "Heal the world"?
Who will make it a better place for us?

Who will give to the poor once and again to their necessity?
Who will be there for them in their anguish and pain?
O', know you not that admired you are of those that hate you most
And did you have to go; or where you too lonely?
But you said "We're the world" that "You are not alone"
Then why did you have to go? And did you leave another "Thriller"
If no, then why choose to be "The man in the mirror"
Thus dirge and elegy now met in my heart. Why?

"Do you remember the time" we first met in my dream

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poem by Lightcheerful Briggs
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