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.

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 GRIM POET

The voices be taking over so loudly I want to scream SILENCE!!!

But I must admit my fear of them because they do sort of have a history of violence.

Sometimes my mind’s guilty of the most gruesome crimes

Blood slimes down imagination walls from skulls shattered against them

Scattered upon the floor, the bloody grimes

Plastered across the room like an imagery of the dark times

Ask yourself not whose skulls

Sometimes they’re mine, sometimes they’re yours

Very often they’re faceless.

Do not ask me the cause of this gracelessnesss

‘Cause sometimes it’s baseless

It thrives not from here nor there;

It’s from a place called Placeless.

The madness has officially begun

And the survival rate is from zero to none.

See I knew I found a friend when I picked up my pen

And I was open to some realism to believe in the concept of Zen

Then it turned out my new best friend was my enemy

And yet still I couldn’t shake off this bond because my enemy remained my best friend.

The tip of my pen had written in a peep hole into a prison of thoughts to my soul

Each word freeing a thought was a trigger for this hole to grow bigger

Now go figure why the incarcerated lot stole a glimpse of the outside world and have been dreaming of a freedom stroll ever since.

And they’re too vigorous to convince

I can’t seem to talk them out of their rigorous goal to break free

The role’s been taken from me

It’s like that decision’s no longer mine to make so what does that make me?

A puppet to my mind’s slavery to ink

I’ve been tossed into a pool of my darkest ideologies with the options to swim or to sink

Drinking in what I can’t shut my mouth to, I’m on the brink of a breakdown

‘Cause the voices be getting louder and louder

I need a structure to think.

But then the voices quiet down and I can’t stand it

The system doesn’t work quite the way I planned it

I’m a schizophrenic artist addicted to the lunacy and can’t unhand it

Mastering my art alternatively falling its victim

I’m a synonym to contradiction

Welcome to this poet’s revelation. 

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.