• joshpoem 22w


    We all have them,
    but because you won't want to throw the baby out with the bath water,
    for the fact that the polished face of the law might get wrinkled from an obnoxious surprise,
    we protect them.
    So we allow them have their way,
    eventhough in the eyes of the world they do nothing but turn down the knob of our IQ,
    but in their defense we go on to chant " I'm only doing me bro".
    Those ill-mannered thoughts,
    cutting off rational and subservient ones where they wait their turn to be heard.
    Charity they say begins at home,
    because of a lack of culture in your faculty,
    after the habit is cultivated among their kinsmen,
    they soon begin to jump in front of the train of thoughts of others.
    We all have them,
    confidence that doesn't belong to us,
    but we use anyways because an arm and a leg is the asking price for procuring the real thing,
    so we borrow from the things that lack the patience to stay,
    but stays around somewhere far enough to collect the attention from the chase that they so enjoyed,
    and since their willingness to answer the call have been established,
    we know they are always a phone call or a new jordans away,
    we've learn to put our trust in them.
    It's in the nature of man,
    we depend on the hype man of a loss to shout out the gain,
    on the blind eye to help us see the light,
    on our weakness to identify the strength we carry,
    and on death to wake us up from our sleep.
    But then again they say prevention is a fairer fellow than cure.
    When your scars recklessly drive you, together with your high hopes,
    into the temple of lush skins,
    in a bid to find saints,
    but only to find yourself locking hands in the ring of faithful sinners,
    just because the average demon will never pick up a book to read,
    won't listen to your noble professors,
    each needs its own scars to learn its tame,
    to bow the face and knee to the mind of the engineer of blood, tissues, and tendons.
    In this class of love,
    there is only one literate, self.
    The type that with accuracy, will read on the wrinkled forehead of faces their many broken promises,
    their unrequited love,
    the grave abuse suffered in the hands of an innocent heart.
    It's why,
    altogether in that school,
    the most difficult subject to master is self-love.
    because every time you think you get a hang of it,
    something good or bad happens,
    and all of a sudden your attention shifts from the immaterial to your day job where you keep tangible scores.
    Goals is a fancy name given to them.
    Good news will do more harm to your ego than the account of a sorry tale.
    You have just so much to offer.
    Look at the world with the good eyes of your infirmity.
    Keep your grind, but never forget your kind.