Seems everyone’s looking for something different in these pieces,
making it their duty to disect…interpret each thesis.
They forget, I’m not here to entertain,
the artist’s worst flaw is his thirst for fame.
I don’t hope to be the next Shakespeare or Walcott,
I’m simply here to remind you of struggles we forgot,
of bruised hands…calloused feet…
single mothers who will accept hunger… but no..never defeat.
So when I speak of desolation… tainted little boys,
& grown men who play with broken toys,
a little girl convinced the ‘future’ is something mythical,
they miss the point.. too busy being overly critical!
campaigning marionettes strung by legislative hands,
all talk I wont expect them to understand!
see… I only revert to metaphors & similes,
to expose anomalies… euphemize realities
If you’re too focused on my dependency on rhymes,
you may miss my underlying objection of the climate of these times.
Times where we’re governed by overheated television screens,
ministered to by cold-hearted thugs in sagging jeans.
Who are you to judge what I carve with my pen?
All I do is relate the plight of boys not quite ten but already men.
9 yr old girls taught anatomy by neighbourhood prostitutes
instructed in commerce & trade by grandpas in designer suits
Even if you don’t appreciate these stanzas,
I hope you capture the essence of truth in my mantras.
Truth that… the time has come to fight…
remove the blindfolds of church, media, politics.. and gain sight
I can’t help the literary ammunition veiled in each verse.
I’m obligated to rebel… to object. Call it… the poet’s curse.
While they dig tombs of propaganda into which we inevitably sink,
I’ll continue to paint a revolution in black ink.
Doesn’t matter if I use the wrong adjective,
cuz Art is… informative…. subjective…
And if you still don’t see that.. well you missed the whole objective.