Details |
Elizabeth Gyan Poem
I can't expect to wake up everyday and do something I hate before I'm even part of the rat race.
How am I expected to cope with that as a human child....not a that human being.
Say it's expected that you fall prey to the mouse trap waiting at the finish line.
Say that I go "hey" and speed up when I think I see the bright red banner held up by body-less hands.
What happens next? Do I cross the line and move on? Am I caught confused and distraught? Do I sit meekly and watch everyone else around me grow human arms and dissapearing parts?
Frankly I don't know which option sounds worse.....become trapped or watch everyone else watch me-watch myself get trapped.
And, it's always writing. Writing which I've never been judged on. Writing which I do for fun.
Writing which entertains me, becomes me, consumed me and forever represents the deepest parts of me that couldn't dare go out to any other human being...human fling...human child and inanimate thing.
Those ugly little corners of life that make u feel faulty inside.
That tiny prickly part hidden from society that still spills out when you are alone. I see what she means though, as sweet as a nursery rhyme whoever she is. Even more knowledgeable as any other matron within this building. Matrons not students, know all.
So lost in my writing I start to feel happier...almost happy?
Start to feel like it's not the all so admiringly anticipated burning down of the world upon us. Thereafter the holy return of the man who apperantly created all this...chaos, goodness, eternal damnation and divinity. Starting to sound like a familiar show where men burst into ashes and women kill other women, how awfully feminine taking tips, from tragic ambitions wife. Effeminate before she "unsex" me! Out! Out damned spot!" Crazy behavior through unreadable poetry as I hear the clock go
Coo Coo, Coo Coo.
I think I have the same spot. Mine won't go out either.
Help me!
Help me!
Save me!
Make me better!
Have I made a mistake?
Against my better judgement.
But who cares about my judgement?
I know I sure don't.
Or do.
Or don't.
Or will?
Or won't.
I'm just about as paranoid as her.
As reckless and irrational as him.
As mighty as them.
As hidden among the green leaves we hide ourselves behind, like everyone else hiding.
It was successful for them. Im sure it will be for me too.
Oh, I'm sure, I'm sure.
Of absolutely nothing.
Copyright © Elizabeth Gyan | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Elizabeth Gyan Poem
Concrete cities of our converted land.
Currencies creeping along, Naira or rand.
This is Africa, should we take a stand?
Helping hands strip rich rocks into their bands.
Debtors demanding for repayment. How grand!
Is this not africa, being exploited by their demand?
Twisted talks just to redeem their brand.
Foolish facades of goodness spoken for our misbrand.
Africa's afro now gripped by a hairband.
The beauty of it all Reduced to nothing.
Patterns of pride are left puffing,
pacing and on their knees before assimilation
pushed them to conformity.
Conformity with the rest of the nation's.
The majority of their dim drab glows.
Just another place, that everyone knows.
The loss of togetherness.
People now ungenerous,
As Africa's silky strands replace her natural beauty.
Copyright © Elizabeth Gyan | Year Posted 2023
|