How will it be when the wheel turns and tables turn against us.
Our children seeking refuge in their countries cause their four fathers failed to eliminate slavery cause slavery was the only option they had before they had you.
Every day and night they cry themselves to sleep, music has the home for their pain, turning pain into power.
My poor little rich country used to be a home for all after all it has become a home, so deep in pockets yet spiritually dead cause no single soul stood up for them when ropes and tires were made necklaces to their necks.
Empty vessels are now making the loudest noise on the streets cause their cans are full of anger, school children looting the streets, claiming to protect their jobs whereas they are not even in the job market.
My words may sound crump to you, but my word is excel on the computer giving birth to power point putting me on point to share my ink with you, cause my closure needs no exposure.
Our bodies may be on time but our time has passed away with the soul cause they used to cry for the pain caused on us yet today the cry of the pain caused by us.
If really we are break-even then why can’t we break-free from this ruthless country and conquer hate for faith.
Cause africa is no longer a continent but a community of blacks.
Put your feet in their shoes, I bet you won’t survive the pressure cause you have a soft spot.
Just because you can handle the truth, it does not mean you can carry the pain.
How will it be when the wheel turns and table turn against us, when mercy is not around…
How will it be (xenophobia)
Dear baby – (Something Casual)
I’m sitting on the bed trying to sort out our clothes and shoes; we both know that this is crucial.
The room is a mess; everything is everywhere as usual.
The bed has just started to vibrate; it’s your phone, it’s ringing – something casual.
“Something Casual†is the identity of the caller.
“Something Casualâ€, I’m thinking to myself, it should be your doctor.
I’m trying to figure out if it’s safe to answer but a note just fell from your drawer.
It reads, “I miss you, my maulerâ€
Now I’m holding your phone but my mind is on the note.
“Something casual†can wait, right? They’re not a cow or a goat;
Because, you meet with them every time when you put on that cute coat.
Stoat. Stoat. Stoat!
“Something casual†just texted; open quote -I miss you baby- end of quote.
Now I’m standing here holding this note, your phone, and my soul in my hands like a lost boat.
I can’t breathe; something (maybe words) but something is blocking my throat.
The words on this note. The words on this text. The words that they wrote.
I’m starting to lose my mind, baby; this can’t be your phone.
The text – the note, they both carry a heavy romantic tone.
Romantic tone so heavy, it feels like I’m swallowing hot stones.
“Something Casual†is talking about how you have to put a ring on it; the affair is now fully grown?
“Something Casual†is discussing things unknown;
Things unknown to me; I feel dethroned.
I’m pacing up and down
I’m confused, my face has a death frown.
The note makes a mention of some red gown.
Perhaps forgotten at the hotel in that small town?
Isn’t this the same gown that I’ve been wearing every time that my soul was a bit down?
The one that I found in your suitcase and you said you’d forgotten to give to me on your arrival?
The morning after the night that you said, you were going to your church revival.
I remember how happy you were that morning; you mentioned something about some love survival.
Or something.
I don’t remember anything.
I think I’m mixing up everything.
Perhaps I should continue to sort out this mess; I’m sure that the note and the text mean nothing.
Come home soon, baby -I miss you !
Big City Lights
Big City Lights
Dim reality
Bright fantasies
Slowly ripping the petals of our daisies.
Fast cars
Slow the tar on the pavement.
Walking into a mirage,
Dodging cupid’s arrow for what’s parked in the garage.
Materials,
Serial killers.
Materials,
Over working us.
Love lost,
Money found.
Infants hosts,
Sickness bound.
Big City Lights,
Hiding behind cracked walls.
Big City Lights,
Deaf to the Fathers call.
Shadows escaping from flesh.
Widows wearing white while the wounds are still fresh.
Mothers breastfeeding chemicals,
Babies abandoned praying for miracles.
Fathers lost in the music,
Children lonely becoming clueless.
Big City Lights,
On day & night.
Sun starts to fight,
Moon giving up its bright.
Blankets on pavements
Skin with no pigment
Wanting, craving, killing for that forbidden element.
Big City Lights
Leaving minds in the dark.
Big City Lights,
When will you stop taking life?
Dice rolled
Homes in 6’s & 7’s
We closer to hell than we are to heaven.
Big City Lights
How dare you!
Big City Lights
Who dared you?
Condemnation consoled by condoms.
Adultery,
A growing tree.
Big City Lights
When will you fuse?
Big City Lights
I’d rather walk in the dark than in your light if I was to choose.
Open your eyes
Be deaf to the city lies.
Open your heart,
Not legs then when you slowly depart.
Big City Lights
Get lost!
Don’t follow the light,
Before you get lost.
Big City Lights…
$igned : Lucky
Fatigue
Come suck the life out of me, my being and soul set free.
Let me live within a secular realm, the armour of distress has me at its helm.
No spirit within the teary pits of my eyes, void of all reaction and truth as its lies.
Educated segregated and the fools celebrated.
Pleased with being teased and my pleas propagated.
Lying on a bed of roses and stains of blood.
Judgement Day is looming with its fiery flood.
Get some enigma to a danger intrigue,
Tales of my villainy within my fatigue.
Paralysed by my own eerie silence, morally illegal life driving has no license.
My inner sins I need to get some penance, my pity party now has a high attendance.
Taken and reciprocated every judgement, of me and now I appeal for God’s atonement.
For my repentance this is my moment, mental parliament’s so fly it is an owl government
Smart puns are in colloquial terms called punch lines.
Because it is lyrical mutilation with battle rhymes.
Wearing big watches because I have risked the big time.
Straightening shows at narrow mindsets that are called crooked crimes.
Get some stigma for conforming’s intrigue,
Stories of my wicked fatigue.
