There he stands at the street corner. The delicious morning breeze chills the sweat crawling down his protruding spine. The rising sun peeps through the canopy of neem leaves and blinds his Casio’s face. That very watch was a gift from his tenth birthday. It had moved from being a timeless chronometer to a sentimental reminder of a period in time.
Combustion engines swished by like cheetahs on the loose, billowing his neatly pressed faded shirt. They didn’t notice him. They were too busy achieving what they were built to do. He was too busy trying to do what he wanted to do. And there he was on the foreign aid built pavement, oblivious of the bus conductors repeating their destinations in a rhythmic loop. In an eager ploy to fill their buses, the stench from their un-laundered shirts discomfort the passengers near them. A group of unkempt kids in rag like attire in the guise of a school uniform hurried past him.
He didn’t mind them or any other detractor in the environment. There he stood on the street corner, with his made in Ghana shoes rooted to the ground. Absent minded but active minded. The indistinct chirps were not perceived by all inhaling the monoxide filled air that hung like stockings at Christmas. The leaves rustled, acquiescing to the wind. Nature abound but no one noticed.
So here he was on the street corner, admiring the withered brown leaves sway to a gentle drop. Paying attention to the indistinct songs being sang by the free birds, flapping the wind the wind beneath their wings. There he was paying attention.
Sometimes I sit on the stones walls, and look across the asphalt.
And I think of all the words in which your buried, and my soul becomes merry.
I picture your face behind the glass, how you look beautiful without trying.
Since our last meet, my heart yearns for you more.
But my brain tell me to think, she’s probably put up a wall.
I want to live and not loose my mind
But then I have to live knowing you won’t be mine.
Daughter of the third, just say something,
Don’t let my insanity be for nothing.
Challenge number 8: A Crime Story
One mistake, that’s all it took. One bad judgment call, and all he had ever worked for was destroyed. It wasn’t his fault a mass was growing inside his head, neutralizing his brain. It wasn’t his fault that the economy was a bag waiting in the driveway to be taken out. It wasn’t his fault that he could no longer pay for his son’s college tuition. He wanted him to be a lawyer. A respectable profession. A life where he wouldn’t have to struggle, wait in line for health care, beg for a meal and loose his dignity. He was compelled to buy the life he never had for his son.
His wife never loved him. She only fucked him because he was able to buy her Margiela jackets. Once the cash stopped she left. A miner looking for the next pit to dig. She left their son. After all he was the only parent in the family. Family, funny how we abuse that word. What really is a family? A group of people bound by common interest? A group of people obligated to care for each other? He had none in his case. All he had now was a deteriorating body and a smart kid. Life has served the legendary “lemons’.
The doctors wanted him to continue treatment. Not because his condition was curable, or that he was in a position to keep on paying, but because it was the orthodox thing to do. His bank account had a different view. Watering a dead flower?
Now he stands in front of the Flagstaff House. He had nothing to live for, his demise will only profit his son. He didn’t think of the millions of dollars he was being paid. He wasn’t thinking of the people who would die or get injured. He wasn’t thinking about the red mercury in his hand. All he thought about was a wasted life.
We are born to die. His death will birth a new life for his son. Family. He remembered a song, An Italian opera classic. Con Te partiro. How poetic. One mistake and now he had to lose his life.
He closes his eyes…. Presses the button. Countdown begins…10…9…8….7…..6……..5……4……….3……….2…….1. Beep.
One mistake. The bomb failed.
I am because i want to be, because i am allowed to be and because i will fight to be.I am here to illuminate the rooms everyone has the key to but is scared to open. I am here to try and understand the insane and try to remain sane. i am here to tell the stories of the voiceless and paint the world with a pastel unknown to us all. I am the star falling into a bottomless pit, recording the affairs of a generation of “bliss and disobedience”.
I am what words are not apt enough to describe, eyes are to shallow to see,and the minds are too lost to pay attention to and understand. I am the force that awakens the sleeping giants with an infants footsteps. I am that which is dead before is born.
We live to die,I live to rise.
Can I kick it?
I’m asking not cos I wanna make it living
Or make a living or complete my mission
Of leading a district
Of niggas and sisters trying to define an existence
Not by the status quo of Mr and Mrs
But Something that’s different
A higher religion not free from vices and sinning
But still remain winning
Now tell me that isn’t a reason to kick it?
Now that was just a build up to something bigger
Not cos its rises from the ground
Or levitates around and doesn’t wither
Or inspired by bar mitzvah, cos this is a coming of age
A sudden realization that I could be great
Not cos I know my fate but I’m not scared to make mistakes.
I fell off but I’m waking up in a different reality
I’m not alone so you better no sleep on we
Oui, I mean that I really gon be
In Detroit not just for lyrics and beats
Or because my pen only releases heat
I’m cooking up, y’all can rise off my steam.
I’m gon be just cos I said it and want it.
Anything in my way is gonna be haunted
By the demons and of course sponsored
By me. In harmony this is the sound of music
Positive I should add for whoever will use it.
I remember Being a kid talking bout the future
Picking a profession just cos the world said it suits ya
Now I realize that life is some real Karma sutra
Karma gives you what suits ya
And leaves you crossed like the feet of Buddha
Wishing everything will blow away like some good hookah.
But the coal still burning, the earth still turning
So why after one fall do you stop yearning ?
Don’t desert your nation until your name turn X
Cos little ain’t enough you could be the best
I can still hear the screams of dreams not in fruition
What good is a soldier if he looses faith in his mission?
Look and tell them of the stars
That focus their iridescent glow for her.
Tell them of the ground that carries her 6 inch stilettos like an infant in a mother’s arm.
Tell them of the sea whose glistening waters show how boundless and infinite her kingdom is.
And bless her eyes with a magnificent sight.
Look and tell them of her presence,
How she radiates joy from her pure soul to the hearts of all.
She is a paragon.
She is an embodiment of nothing even close to perfection.
But She tries.
She rules with a kyrptonian heart and childish smile.
She is the Queen Mother, but she is my friend