The scribbles that once brought a rush now struggle to find a pulse.
Now that Ink blots shy away from limitations,
and envy the imitations that court pretentious nods for their innovations.
With cultural referencing and scripts they kill our mutations.
They’re pushing back the curtains and selling out for crowd validation,
these imitations veil our muses with reposted quotations.
While we’re avoiding our audience’s condemnation,
they’re chasing self gratification like they’re giving a five knuckle ratification.
They win the lights while we will hide from the shine of recognition,
fearing its blinding therapeutic condescension like a plague in circulation.
And here we are now practicing visionary utopianism to the best of our imagination,
to keep cloudy hues
and safeguard our pens from those cloned imperfections.
When you see weakness,
the weakness in man that makes you believe that your power can move our mountain minds
and displace our hearts from thoughts of their wondrous wondering divides.
You will approach us.
You will approach us like a thief, sly Duval and announce your lack of morals.
With blow horn in check to round us in
and the stamp of hell to prove your dominance.
But then you’ll see true weakness,
you’ll know true weakness is you.
That true evil is the myth called you,
and you alone are mythical, Diablo.
You’ll know what he veiled at last.
Man is always born pious or skeptic,
but you’ll get to pick the latter
and not by might or power.
He’ll take his time and pick his best and you get default for being Dubious.
So I say to you, dear brother.
Brother mine don’t laud your power,
its meagre and little and shameful
for you are just a guardian.
To the damned souls who wandered,
wandered away from father.
When an ‘I’ runs through most of our work, we lose the connection with our readers. They want to live in our pieces, not live as us indirectly.
The day our simple hearts met,
intertwined in the bliss our social reconnaissance left.
Your intrigue and my desire to feel were so tense.
So I decided and never told you,
I never told you how intense.
How love and lust are one to me
and I’d yearn for you while my head’s still stable.
And as I care for you I wonder,
when I wonder I wander beyond
I never mentioned so I’m to blame,
now we’re playing the silent game.
The rules of the game they mock me,
hoot at me,
then lunge at me.
The rules which are one rule,
which is the lonely rule.
Where you see me,
then don’t see me,
just to punish me.
Just to make me feel something you just want to see,
that manly pleading that’s not one with me.
My wonder and desire will die,
when we play that messed up game
I took heart in momma’s glow
while daddy made me my own bow.
For the day I bow out of my own home
and creep into this soul hunter’s globe
With barely twenty days left till my twenty first, till I’m completely legal and have no cause to hide, I feel this awful nostalgic atmosphere around me. Twenty years of neither chasing dreams nor out doing and challenging myself. Twenty years of which I’ve dealt with an inferiority complex that’s firmly rooted in its foundation by my God complex (messed up mind). In twenty days I’ll be twenty one and I’ve got this sudden urge to fill in the gaps that my philistine nature has left for me. The cultures, the knowledge, the things I’d put on my imaginary list of things to do, I feel a twinge of annoyance and regret for not diving into all these things earlier in my life. It’s disgraceful how I’ve allowed Math to show me the stars in a not so adventurous way. I’m disappointed that I never packed a backpack to wing it like Bear Grylls ( I don’t even know the shortcuts in my own hood). Heck I’m even more pissed that I let myself be average because I assumed I was smarter than the average person (the average Ghanaian person) and that it somehow sufficed. Now I have this forceful urge to enlighten my mind and to say
fuck it to that old meaningless desire I had to find my rock (not God, just a human who would agree with my self wallowing musings) I have this urge to understand myself, to punish and correct myself, to take the reigns and lead my loaded carriage from the shitstorm that auto pilot led me to. I have this urge to take this blog seriously, and to stop stuffing my life’s to do list then ignoring them of my own volition. I started 2016 a tad more self aware than usual and almost halfway through, after intensely critiquing my importance and self worth like never before I’ve decided 21 is not a bad year to actually start living my life. A bit late but at least it will do.
I’ll let my envy and hate for those who Lord themselves over me for being better be the Will of D in my struggle for My Piece (Peace wouldn’t be in the spirit of One Piece on paper) .
People listen when your dying.
Or when you’re flying,
particularly when you’re up high,
but not when you are wallowing.
Not when you’re wallowing with them,
wallowing in pits of nothing.
Pits with no dazzle and mind numbing endless wallowing.
That’s why great men, great sons of the Lord,
self styled or ordained,
yet formerly of sin,
make martyrs of purity
who turned to the side of the high judge
Unlike the ordinary man
who can pay for a crime generations old,
for not confessing as a martyr.