FANTASY GIRLS

We’re fantasy girls

We’re not supposed to love

We keep ourselves tidy and smile sweetly

He sees us and wants us

He needs us

Not forever, but only for a while.

He’s curious about our lips

Our breasts and waists make him wonder

if they've ever been touched before.

He wants to be the first, the next,

but never the last.

We’re good girls, fantasy nonetheless

We’re everything he’s made up in his mind

Smart enough to hold a conversation

Caring enough to keep embraces warm

With us he’s built a house

For the times he gets bored in his home.

We’re fantasy girls

But no one told us of our roles

So we keep playing the parts already taken

Oblivious to the absence of the audience

Our standing ovations are often imagined.

Now we've become a bother

Because blind emotions keep us around

We’re fantasy girls

He doesn't want us to love

We’re not supposed to get attached

For soon he should be gone.

HE DOESN'T WRITE ANYMORE

He doesn’t write anymore.

Before, he would wade in the water till the sea hurled to shore his words galore

But he’s internalized his hurt and his disdain remains unfurled

So I can no longer relate to his pain and heal him from the world.

He doesn’t write anymore.

As if he didn’t know I consumed his inscriptions of a thousand tongues like it was air to my lungs

And I could breathe in the echoes of a throng of his melodies

But his verses are missing from a song of memories

His lyrics no longer belong.

He doesn’t write anymore.

Like he took a nap and woke up to a time his art no longer spoke

Like he broke his pen or lost the wave of its stroke

It’s like a curse I wish to revoke; so bewitch me, cloak me

Otherwise tear these blank sheets from his book, please

Un-produce them and re-erect the oak tree.

He doesn’t write anymore.

Like he took the wrong course and got trapped behind the door of an unworthy cause

And his words have been held hostage lest taken by force

But he’s weak and addled, a tired horse without a saddle

He can only pray for help from a divine source.

He doesn’t write anymore

Though I wish he would.

I wish to inspire him from the ground up; I wish he stood.

I’d dish him food to nourish his mind up; I’d feed him good.

Just to inspire him to write a little bit more

I wish he would.

REVOLUTION

We are greater than it’s been said
Our blood flows thicker than that which our forefathers bled on battles they led
That which they shed upon our heads in anointing
We are discerning people who yearn and labor to in turn be more fulfilling than that on which we fed.

We are artists, decision makers and steadfast entrepreneurs
Enriching our earth with blood, sweat and tears to last past the years
Into decades, centuries and millenniums
We are the new age of freedom
From us comes a new age to stage change.
We do no lay on our backs side-tracked by monetary gain
Or tread on old paths picking up old crumbs that remain
We are the innovators, the no-Sayers to preachings the vain proclaim
We reject imitations and limitations set a stepping stone to esteemed heights
We are not fixated on stardom although our succession shines bright.

We are truth seekers, articulate speakers voicing the noise of the silent; the vibrant strength of the weaker
We are our brother’s keepers
Sisters who don’t chase misters just for a taste of a little glitter
We protect and respect our own for we are them
We are men, women and children joined at the stem
We are fine-cut stones
We are gems.
Diamonds in the African rough
Sought after and made to believe we don’t blend in with the dirt and the scuff
They intend to take us to a foreign land to be refined, that is, pretend to be one of them
But we remain grounded with the rest of the pure stuff
To hell with their graces,
The pride we bear is enough.

We are illumination to a bleak vision
The reconstruction of a forgotten mission
The proclamation that a nation broken within itself must be its own salvation
We are the revolution.
Stand Up !

WHO I WRITE

Look past the comments and likes and tell me what you really like about the words that I write. 
Are they like your dark thoughts brought to light or slight light sparks seen at night? 
Does it bring sight to the blind or life to your mind or the kind of truth only words can find? 
Do my rhymes bind the broken times like a straight edge on dotted lines? 
Like lyrics fitted perfectly where melody chimes? 
Do I get through to you? 
Are my words a righteous life force that tells a story and inspire you to write yours in spite flaws 
Does it clear up your vision when your sight’s sore? 
Or hand you goals against the odds just to even the score? 
What do my words stand for? 
Do they take you back to what was to relive on past glory 
Or from history birth out a new story 
His story, her story, my story, your story 
Stories of the good, bad and the gory. 
Do I make you sappy, happy or sorry. 
Cripple you like a broken lorry
Or itch your feet to move to the groove you’ve refused to dance to because of those who’d disapprove. What do I sound like to you? 
Am I shy like a girl to her high school sweetheart? 
Daring and defiant like ghetto street art? 
Or do I creep up on you like Biggie used to do right after the beat starts. 
How dare I use I and Biggie in the same line though 
Pardon me, maybe I juggle a couple of words just so I seem smart.
My mind’s berated with questions making incisions in my brain 
My curiosity won’t refrain me from asking. 
Do you think I show you the real me or am I masking? 
Do I talk like I walk or am I just multi tasking? 
Who am I to you?

THE WRITE ROAD

I never really liked myself when I was growing up

Always felt like that drop of water left settled at the bottom of the cup

Unspoken for and ignored to be thrown out against the pavement

A mental enslavement to abandonment never endorsed.

My face embossed with tears, droplets dropping without remorse

Forced to merge with the forces of darkness with no true meaning of who I really was;

A girl undiscovered.

Night times caught me shivering without the cold but alone so I slept uncovered

Suffered to the bone and taunted by the shadows that hovered

Haunted by the ghosts of the unknown.

Most days were a daze treading passages built like a maze preceding my own amazement when I made it home

My bathroom mirror revealing a girl who stood inferior to her own reflection

Unforgiving to her errors oblivious to the greatness of her true person.

Confused by the blues of a girl standing in a woman’s shoes unable to choose the tools that separates her from the fools.

My heart beat me till I bruised.

The clock took stock of time with each tick tock interlocked with unwelcomed thoughts held deeper inside

My insides an intricate design of intestines and discomfort intertwined.

Those were the days of yesteryears when matter stood master over my mind.

Spent that portion of my youth in the pursuit of truth in all the wrong places I could find.

And then I wrote…

Morning came and joy did not always follow but I wrote away the sorrows and swallowed the reality pills held hostage in my throat

I stood president over my affairs when it became apparent that it only entailed that I afford myself the vote

Time after time of jotting my quotes in little notes encouraged the self actualization that I was more than I gave myself credit for

Ink gave me a platform to think and when I would close my eyes in a blink words instead of tears synced with my paper

Who knew a pen could mend the break in time unend and send the negativity away to fend for herself because I would no longer feed her

Not a writer, nor a poet, more of a thought projector

I write to bare my whole being just in order to protect her

If I were able to label these words I’d name them my soul protector.

My imagination bursts with color and relieves my thoughts of its solidarity to the comfort zone

Finally I’ve grown into my own and reaped some wisdom from what little seeds of words I have sown.

EMPOWERED

Society frowns upon sobriety but it won't directly say so

It subtly inebriates your consciousness till the duality of left and right is left unstable

See when your priorities get misplaced you always do as you're told

And with society calling the shots, the bullets are aimed to pierce your soul.

You and I are of the same breed

A pedigree trained to follow, born to lead

Beaded in a society that sees yet neglects our needs

So its conventions we succeed.

They watch us bleed and plead for change

Greed feeds the system so its arranged in their favour

Thence now and later they have the power

to fill our reserved seats with the over aged.

Sit still or demonstrate

Write. Draw. Scribble within and out the box or remain a blank page plagued a caged bird;

A script-less actor on an empty stage.

We envisage tomorrow similarly with selective imagery

One man plans to work

Another works a plan drawing an abstract legacy the future looks upon like a memory.

They are disciples of a dream

Their deeds cycle seamlessly

Insightful rebels for the team

But one lives his while the other lives another's scheme

For only one is satisfaction guaranteed.

Yaa Asantewaa led battle long before anyone convened to Beijing.

Let not your gender drag you under

Consider it blunder to weaken before you strife, put asunder the facile life.

Sing tunes of "Yes I Can" to string things that bring mediocrity to an end

Dare to transcend the expectations normalcy extends.

Procrastination steals at your will till you're broke

And broken souls hang a stole around unspoken goals

Too tightly for design and choke words that leave success songs unsung.

Postpone to tomorrow only what today can survive undone.

You too are a painter of life

With art galleries shooting masterpieces through your system

So scientists named them your ARTeries.

Don’t let it last, that draft of your future they based on their past

Remember change roams within your range like a rover

She’s the fat lady who won’t sing cuz the show’s never over

There’s room for one more thought, one idea, one more vision

In your hands, lies one more chance to impact a generation.