Should I Be Blamed

(autobiographical) I was barely eight before mother died When Gerald was happy and not as reduced When he was the loved son The child with a loving home. From aunt to aunt I learned to live Out of the anger of dad Out of the voice that brought fear. Into the hand of pestilence- My second life began- A life of maltreatment, A life of struggle Elder brother disowned when he revolted The treatment harsh and inhuman - so he bolted. I joined the struggle The life of scuffle Wherein I was the marked The recalcitrant and ragged The delinquent in school The tortured child of the family's few Who outlived the deads of two aunts Beseeched to care for him. I am half mad, they tell me I know I am a psychic Half crazed child A ricochet of mum’s death- I have been alienated Disillusioned by life, ill-fated Tortured by a disturbed mind. Dad on my heels Listening to propaganda murder-bent at my heels flogged flogged flogged till I go for pills. Fled my home to the street Ate from the bin Lived with street kids One of the flocks One of the hard rocks. I have been in the cold No bosom have rocked with me Save mum’s who lies in the clay. I am spiritually dead Physically out of mind, they say. From pastor to pastor From prayers to prayers From recessions to intercessions, Through starvation for correction I remain unchanged. I am finished, they say. Nothing can help me save God on whom I weep and call. My relatives Alienate me making me atychiphobic Aggravating my anthropophobia building in me gelotophobia and all those anthropological phobias A loved child has no right to know. It bringing me pain for they are nailing me shut. I pity myself - Pity me father Pity me, brother Because I have tried Tried to be loved Tried to be the best from limps But I am not up to those dreams. I know that many dislike me Feel uneasy when Gerald is around: Instead of helping me They become indifferent, violent. I told Louisa last week as she fumed at methat anything I lay my hands on fails to work again. It either gets bad or broken. My own things end up craggy No matter the patience and prudence I put in. Why then am I born? Why the fear Why the alienation? I pray that I be left alone Donot curse me again, donot. Accept my fate and let me be Else you help in killing me.