My Story
For too long I have been buried in this ink..
Seeking refuge in pages,trying to novel my insides..
I knew the sound of a gun before I could dance to the click in my name..
My hands were bullets, they knew only how to celebrate wounds..
I was always a broken tree with no roots because my seeds were never watered carefully, so I never knew the beauty of branches..
The scars that found home on my knees would tell you that on the sack of Bibles I prayed on it, prayed upon the birth of my unborn father, who lived only in photographs..
I smoked the blunt out of James trying to find the reason for my broken gene pool..
So forgive me, if the John of my success is not legend enough..
Mother never told me that seasons can change and so my heart was always naked..
Her skin was pregnant with cigarette burns, footprints of men, dressed in Noah's arc, but became titanic in her ocean..
Night after night they painted an orchestra of scars on her temple, broke every piece of smile she ever wore, watered every spark of hope that ever flamed her survival, undressed every piece of linen that ever fashioned her a woman..
So I had to shoot,I needed to shoot.. And now these prison walls hold my breath with puppet strings, and only blank pages have the spine to carry my stories, and even though I remain caged, my pen still has the appetite to vomit my rage.
My vision was always blurry, my
eyes filled with salt, i was a broken kid, a young "SIMBA" who had knowledge of ages..
Pain was the only thing that unleashed the "LION" out of its cage..
Pain of growing taller and wiser without seeing my father age..
I have been painting him in every poem hoping that somehow he will hear my rage..
And witness the "ROAR" talent of a kid who has never touched any local stage..
A genius with a mind of Albert Einstein on these poems..
I value the breath of time cause every tick,every tock is a lost coin..
My tongue was always a paint brush..
My words were like paint on a clean sheet..
They never told me that i was a god,they all kept it on a hush..
They all buried their words in a bottomless pit..
The wounds that found home in my knees would novel a story of how i lived through nights reading scriptures..
Praying upon being heard..
But the world played deaf..
And i started rolling on sheets with Mary Jane..
Puffing the trees to numb the pain..
All I've ever hoped for, was for these "bars" that i have been scribbling to set me "free"..
But they told me, that i was not Morgan enough, and so i will never be a free man..
But my heart is django, and I will be unchained, my pen is the key..
Copyright © Eric Mokemane | Year Posted 2015
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