My Shit Poetry
I would much rather stare at a blank page
Than read the shit poetry I write. Everything is
Lost in translation, coagulated
And dry, I write this. A formulaic
Thought is forgotten and skewed, I can't
Explain this. Head in my hands, anger through
My veins, despair and aggravation, this
Is what my shit poetry creates for me?
Or is this despair and aggravation why
I write this shit poetry of mine?
To You, Africa
You are a beautiful terra firma
With beautiful people
Rich in history
Rich in prosperity
You are a land of life hard lived
Through droughts and famines
Your people had a lot to give
Your villages were of close community
Unlike that of civilization
You were the best example
that the world could have seen
Then the toubob began to arrive
And your people were taken
With no regard for your childrens lives
I know you are still shaken
Taken from the land they loved
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As I Walk...
As I walk along this unknown path of emotions
I find myself in front of a mirror...staring at a sad eyed
soul with rags of despair draped over its shoulders and
an anvil chained to its heart. What is this? I ask
myself and the answer comes to me...
This is you, how you feel on the inside...you are a torn
soul, lost and confused while laden with despair and
a heavy heart.
This I already knew...
I lower my head...
What am I to do besides go on and hope
that I make it through the day without
choking or crying? I am only so strong
and this trial has pushed me beyond those limits
of strength. It's ok though, I am not ashamed to admit
that I have cried over my actions and feel regret and
despair. In admitting this I find my humanity, the part of me
that beats to the steady rhythm of my heart...this heart chained
to an anvil in symbolism of my regret and pain.
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