Poetic State Of Mind


I can’t be lied to,
Young African, with a proud heritage,
Born with wisdom yet not of age to sit with the greats,
I’m getting there, just wait,

Soon, the whole world will hear about me,
Even the beasts of the land will be scared to devour me,
Stand toe to toe with my foes,
They’ll bring armour yet I’ll bring my soul coated in speech
that’ll sparkle like diamonds and be priceless as gold,

I’m not arrogant,
I may be petulant but I’m no vigilante,
All I do is plant seeds in the hearts of the many who read
these pieces to grow a stalk they can climb to set their hearts free,

In the wake of persistent konkonsa,
I refer to these chatterboxes with minute nyansa that they might be cold,
but their words are just hot mframa,

I’ve not been known to swallow my words,
Neither has life been able to, maybe if she was a bitch like some claim
to know, then she’d probably deep throat my soul,

A rebel with a dream,
A Mugabe sitting @ a table dialoguing with the queen,
I too dream, like Martin that race and colour will be just a distinct feature
of description,
and not a subject matter,

I’m inspired by those who say I can’t make it,
Take a good look @ the frame, while these words process the negatives
of history in the making,

And if the sky’s too high for me to reach,
then I need a stalk to climb on, a seed
that can breach the gap between the clouds and my feet
Something like that of Jacks Bean.


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