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Poem
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” 
 
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