A woman with her three kids sitting on the streets Her two children hide their faces in her shoulders She trys to provide and shelter her children on the streets Her children rest their weary heads on her shoulders The woman holds her youngest child with her left arm Unsure where their next meal will come Letting her children know it will be alright to keep them calm Unsure what will become of them She isn't ashamed of her situation The woman and her children hope for a better future She knows she can overcome her situation She knows her children can have a better future The woman trys to help her children stay alive Until the great depression ends they will survive.
here is a broken girl, wailing against the wall, for a love that was smoke and mirrors. there is cocaine hooked on her lips and she refuses to let the pain get to her head when midnight lurks around the corner of her dark dark bedroom. with grief-stricken fingers, she knits a lie and hangs it on her door, barring people from ending up in her blood smeared haven. all she has even known is hope so she hops from her seat when she glances at the moon and breaks her limb in an attempt to cage the brightest star in the sky with her tiny hands. melancholy outmanoeuvre's her naiveness and she falls straight into the arms of her lover. it's a crime to sniff tarnishing love off a lover's sleeves and sad girl's don't do that so she pushes him away and darts back into the tiny cage that submerges her fragility as she scatters on the floor. the lights of her room flicker and she hopes to pluck a star from a sky to hang it next to her dreamcatcher so he doesn't appear in her nightmares anymore but hope is a sin she cannot barter for an unhinged obsession and she makes the same mistake of jumping from the highest floor in the building, rubbing her tears away cause there are no stars in the sky tonight and the moon doesn't show up to grieve her loss. this time when she lands in his arms, he doesn't let her push him away and pulls her closer. she is vulnerable and he is her kryptonite and he knows that she melts in the right arms so he brushes his fingers over her wounds, and she prompts him to kill her one last time before he traces his fingers down her neck and tells her how she never learns from her mistakes. it is wildering to fathom why she hates this gentleman who waves at her every time her limbs walk away from him, running into the stale corners of her mind, too big to hover over his pale lips and the lustful gaze that can make her dig her own grave. he doesn't dare to break the starstruck gaze that fills her eyes with loosely held souvenirs from the past and she once again hopes that he'd confess love but he pulls out a dagger and stabs her as he whispers I love you and she smiles as she falls on the ground 'cause she knows that it's hard to escape a love that's designed to kill.
Oh my love,Oh my love, How I search for thee, The mind of a writer raceth, Racing in verses to find its beloved, Verses of sonnet and ballad, Dancing to the hush sound of emotions, Swaying in lines, with the cadence of repetition, To meet in the flow of words, Words,travelling back in time, Words, bringing forth unforgettable memories, Oh my love,Oh my love, How I found thee, My heart yearns for thy presence, Presence of rhymes and meters, Of which I will thirst for, Till I lay in rest with my poetic ancestors.
Oh my love,Oh my love, How I long for thee, The ink of a writer speaketh, Speaking in stanzas to define its beloved, Stanzas of couplet and ode, Chanting with the loveliest of voice, Narrating in patterns, to the race of humanity, Of how our paths crossed, Paths of loneliness and of personification, Paths of depression and of synecdoche, Oh my love,Oh my love, How I missed thee, My body craves for thy touch, Touch of tautology and paradox, Of which I will thirst for, Till I rest my pen in death.
Behold,a mother in pain, As she watches the trials of her child, Her arms rest on her ample breasts, Her legs succumb into the thriving hands of weariness, Streams of sorrowful tears flow down the contours of her cheeks, Is that not inhumane?
The voice of the African child, Was muffled by the cruel leather whips of his vicious masters, Ripping his dark sun-scorched skin, becoming bathed with blood, The voice of the African child, Was overwhelmed by the shouts of hunger and thirst, Calling vehemently for their overly due needs.
I write of a slave, A slave without voice, Of chains and shackles, Of deniable freedom, As voiceless as he is, As hopeless as I am.
Alas! Mother Africa rejoices, As she watches the elevation of her child, Her arms swing repeatedly in the air, Her legs move rhythmically to the melodies of hearty song, Melodies of hearty song calling for jubilation, Is this not awesome?
The voice of the African child, Rises with power like a warrior, Downing his adversaries into the valley of defeat, The voice of the African child, Emerges with glory like a king, Engulfing tribulations into the pit of shame.
I write of a black, A black without fear, Of pride and power, Of dauntless courage, As fearless as he is, As limitless as I am