On Kensington Avenue, under the railway,
Her stage is a paperboard box.
The sounds of North Philly provide the applause.
Her venue’s the school of hard knocks.
At the drama’s finale, the curtain comes down.
She’d serviced her role like a slave.
Just the tip of the needle, a neat little hole,
But the exit wound gaped like a cave.
My talent is disappearing in space,
My ocean is slowly turning into ice,
Feeling as if am loosing this race,
Am doing my best to pick my pace,
Oh God! When will everything be nice?
My well is running out of charms,
There's no drop of rhyming poems,
Sitting down with my empty palms,
While watching love movies and films,
Am always waiting but no one comes.
I have seen many friends leaving,
And as time passes my life's fading,
When I say this am serious, ain't kidding,
There's no specific place they're going,
They are becoming part of my history.
I am really finding it so hard,
To find the gift of putting pen to hand,
I don't know if you can get to understand,
But hope soon I'll find the energy to stand,
And write a rhyme poem on my paperboard.
©Kelmwa
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