Poetry Its Taunting Me

Can I lend my brains for a day, year and minute only? My heart only left to see if poetry will exist Yet poetry is taunting me, trying to reconcile with my past My step father’s abusive days, Days that one almost burning, Burns “me” Memory sits me well Paraffin stove was on flames ….in a beautiful shack of my mother’s Neighbors so silent, Shouting and screaming Trying to grab my mother out of this shackles “Sick men” jealously in contempt Yet poetry is taunting me, trying to reconcile with my past Walls toned down Paints falling and cracks birthing Signatures of my pasts Bed so small tossing And turning; I fell I could not remember his stir I could hardly count his teachings Most importantly I could remember my mother’s bruises Yet poetry is taunting me, trying to reconcile with my past ‘This female companion’ Yet nostalgia sickens me They told me they miss me I told them I love them They said “you’re like a brother” Yet nostalgia sickens me Circumcising my thoughts Yet poetry is taunting me, trying to reconcile with my past Alexander that day, my television battery was full In time for “Kunta Kinte” My homework done I could smell my mother’s perfume I could hear my mother’s voice... This time not crying as she so nicely speaks behind her scars “Soul Brothers” playing at the back ground I could hear him as he enters Silent so stretched in my mothers’ beautiful half face Peels of my heart pouring in prays Hoping for another beautiful dinner We never had! Songs of Solomon And Romans Peels of my heart pouring in prays As he speaks, we are silent to hear Finding comfort sleeping on the flow Mother breathing in cries on her bed Swollen face reddishness in her eyes in the morning Songs of Solomon And Psalms Yet poetry is taunting me, trying to reconcile with my past A beautiful summer afternoon Rains in razors as bullets cuts through them I could see flames so cleanly animating in my eyes Did not know whether to call it a crime or shooting games Yet poetry is taunting me, trying to reconcile with my past A beautiful girl next door “Lion king; Hakuna Matata! Aint’ no passing craze It means no worries for the rest of your days” A beautiful girl next door Speaking English to a death ear But I listen to words, home so big than my thoughts Ko ‘Pen’ Sunday “biscop” time, just in time to escape This presents situations, “My father was a hero” Do you know it too?