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?
Copyright © Prince Nkgadima | Year Posted 2015
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