the thing is

You know how to write,

We just don’t have time for you,

You know what,

This is going to be painful,

It’s never our intention to hurt anyone,

The thing is,

You seem quiet arrogant,

We’re unsure if we should regard this as;

Pride or,

Shyness.

We want to talk to you but,

Time doesn’t allow us to do so.

I hope that you will still be yourself after reading this;

You’re an arrogant brat with no future at all.

That’s how we’ve come to the conclusion.

Don’t ask us how we came to that,

Just celebrate that at least,

There are people who don’t like you at all.

Two sentences wont hurt you,

I have read worst things you’ve written online.

As others sat back and glorified nonsense,

I was taken aback and started taking notes,

I’ve discovered that you aren’t covered in glory–

as most of my peer make you out to be.

You see, I don’t care about styles and which words,

must be woven into a sentence to make;

A paragraph,

An article or,

A poem.

I don’t care anymore.

I hope you now know;

Not all people are into you,

Not all people heroworship you.

 

Advertisements

though

don’t you think it’s poetry,

They think it is,

who?

You know who.

Let me tell you something dear,

These aren’t just written words,

This is life.

Lend you ear close to them,

Just hear them breathe,

It isn’t their last of which they’re exhaling but,

A living exhalation in need of your semi inhalation,

Let me just say,

Apart from your nephews and nieces,

House pets and your girl friends,

You haven’t been putting your mouth to good use,

Stretch those lips and be charitable for a cause,

These air we breathe isn’t free at all.

If it was, we weren’t going to lose inhaling it one day.

Now that we lose our loved ones to a Deity unknown,

We have to tread carefully with either our words or deeds.

A lot of man is lying beneath the soil that nourishes our food,

clothes and spirit.

When all is done,

When our names have been called,

We shall go underground like rap stars,

When all that happens,  this world shall know,

Ours have been completed.

Nobody knows what it is,

It could either be a mission or God-given way of life ,

Though not all of us believe in Him…………………………

 

pounce

Should I continue writing poetry or like they say;

You should just  give up?

I’m holding nothing on my palms,

Nothing!

Not even paint spray can marbles.

If I had them on the floor and watch murmurers tumble.

For now though,

I rather watch them stumble like readers on tubmlr.

Sorry folks, I didn’t mean to tease you,

It’s just that a whole lot of us are hypocrites,

Not just any because most of us are unjust.

We say things to move others from their targets,

While we hold ours dear and steadily  pounce,

On their dreams, opportunities left behind.

To I

How could a poem make a man lose his mind?

On the streets they’re losing it,

Turn around look at I, head-turner and say;

You’re losing it.

Siince I began to write poems I’ve gained so much ground.

They now all look at me and mimic words from a Tupac song,

And hate on me because I told them I love them so much more.

I don’t care if you have you eyes sat on an iron or ore,

I don’t care if you feel I’m an outlaw,

All I know is that I abide by my country’s rules,

All I know is I have a boss who loves me dearly.

Predictions are predictions.

To me they’re like repititions which scares a whole lot of you.

again

I’m being forced to write  yet again–

even when all I want is to have some rest.

They’re at it again.

Those who know me well;

not just for the sake of wishing my wonderful face-

was theirs for the taking.

not for the sake of ;

wondering whether I was born like they or,

fell from the sky like the devil did,

When GOD kicked him out of Heaven for disobedience.

Old scriptures are tossed my way like worn out,

rust coins without value.

I was at the ATM again this morning.

Again?

Again, sweatheart and I was followed.

This acting of loading the unlikeable,

Of being forced-fed raw meat like I’m a devil-worshipper–

Irks me.

I’ve been down on my knees for some time,

I can now say that they’re aching.

All these suspicions that I’m some kind of a movie-character–

irritates me.

This thing of people looking at me like I owe them–

one thing or another is rotten to the core.

Have any of you smelt raw-fish?

Don’t tell me how it first rot at the head,

I’ve heared all of that before.

If prayers don’t work for either of you,

I guess I know what will….