Out of bullets, tears and blood shed
I construct sense,
my sense tenements are gentrified
to make space for diplaced benefits
and morals, misplaced by pens,
a warrior’s fist is an open hand asking
for change, crumbs and overstanding.
March on back to where you were born
for your current state propels you
towards foreign values,
play on to familliar places to your origins
for these jeans restrict your stride.
Bring it on.
From procrastination generation,
give me a date and a dead revolutionary,
I’ll tote the memories during holidays and
Keep on miming forbiden hymns
and let the refugees scream at the oppresion
of their own kind.
When minds worship inferiority and
believe in liberation from another man’s
hand with the promise of monopolising
No more, looking up to the sky for a savior
but bending towards this earth for a sacrificial lamb
for our own struggle.
We bleed on, these terrains are contours on our skin
and the map to freedom is plotted in our tears.
The future is tomorrow but yesterday is a tome
I must summarize Before I could go out to present
my self to green eyes.
Stereos typed by publishing capitalists,
they expect me to Be what the book said I’d Be!
I WaLK ON.
I have poems for epiphanies, written
on the forehead of my identity.
My trance is contradictory to my footprints,
leaving Nike marks from malls to kraals.
The mirror knows noone but testifies for every soul.
With all the lies sold abt my history I still am bold.
With all the appauling treatment I’ve received,
my heart does not radiate hatred because I