|
| |
Guns at Home
Drunk is the man,
Who gave me the roots of my existence
In this harsh, cold and dark world...
For instance,
He beats up his so-called darling heartbeat
To a pulp, saying she's not caring about him
Yet he spends the little he gets
In bars, so late at night
With his friends, who dance to the tunes of alcohol
And use that chance to know harlots biblically...
He pounces on them as prey
Though they spread disease in the community
Alas! The more he laughs, is the more he loses soberness
Harnessing thoughts that we are his enemies
On his return, to our ramshackled house!
They say that a home is a safe place
But to me it's like a warzone
A heart rage of shame...
Mother, so verbous that her words land out of place
As she fires gruesome tantrums to her husband
And as African men once nurtured,
They shan't tolerate disrespect from a woman
When he flogs her in front of my siblings and I
Indeed our miniature size, prevails as our weakness
Seeing our mother bleed, to the brink of death!
Copyright ©
Ssenkezi Henry
|
|