Nursing My Poetry

Singing my soul out, my pen is my voice.

Leaving the gone to rest in peace, laying a road for those coming after me.

Varnishing into my pride, offering my soul for sale.

Stabbing my generation with claws of poetry, going through pages like a whirlwind.

No time for laundry, the pen made me forget what’s in the pantry.

Falling face down, echoing “long live Shakespeare”. Toni Morrisons wasn’t less of a national asset. Falling at Hemmingway’s feet, dancing to the tune of fiction.

My soul can’t digest any other piece of prose.

Pinning blues in my backyards, this nudge of words won’t let me.

Looking evil straight in its eyes, spitting at its scene. Chinua was great, am greater.