Monday, 13 March 2017

THE THOUGHT OF HOPELESSNESS


What will I call her,
A paragon of exasperating beauty
A jinx of melancholic joy
The alpha of disastrous followership
The bane of intense helpesness

What will I call her,
The goddess of chronic bitterness,
The piston of infuriated jealousy,
The spur of self imprisonment,
The spark of eternal dismay.

And she asked why do men cheat?
I quickly but jently responded,
because they have no heart, again she asked, why have they no heart?and I replied, because their hearts has been stolen and shattered by the thieves. And she asked who are the thieves? and I said not certain but they are of your fold.
And she asked has your been stolen too? I replied not stolen but disappointed. She asked why? And I said; broke, uncivilized, foolish, childish and mad.
I quarrelled with prospect and they have all deserted me, I and the future had a misunderstanding and the future has asked me to stay in the past.
The past suggests that I have no future.
I am reminded of mama call,
And I have to return to mama poverty,
I have asked mama to dig my grave,
Because I will like to spend some time in it.

She looked at me,smiled and said,
Fareware dear,
In your next world be rich, handsome, civilized, wise,mature and reasonable and I will give you a chance.

Again I called upon mama,
Please hurry with the digging,
For my life is a perversion,
So that my joy is my solitude,
My smile is my cry,
And my true happiness is my deepest sorrow,
For my life is a residue of pain,
The debris carved of by the creator to make others perfect.
The blemish of perfection, the faulter of unique humanity,
And around my neck is a loop with the pendant of pestilence,
Pendulating with the grease of ease,
In askance I look up to the sky pondering what must have been in Gods mind when he made me.
Why do I have every thing yet own nothing,
Why am I so talented yet seem empty

Oh how I have grown old without aging
That my disposition is like that of a wretched pale poorper on the street,
Begging for dust and grits to eat,
And upon my forehead is a seven star insignia of frustration,
As if I am the king of lost souls,
That upon my chest is tattooed a death prescription,
It is the brink of my brood over my existence.

My conscience pricks me,
My fate rebel me,
My heart is sunken,
My brain retreats to the abyss.
Hmmm what have I done?
She prompted my consciousness,
She rebelled my enthusiasm,
She is neither here nor there.

My voice is like sore in her belly
For the fear of me is the beginning of long life
Her future is brighter than ten thousands search lights
And her grace the Universe cannot match.

But who am I

I wish I was a squirrel
Perhaps my life would have been much more easy,

I wish I was a monkey,
So that I could worry less about civilization,

I wish I was a bird,
So that my freedom would have been unlimited.

I wish I was a tree,
So that I would trade without emotions, and that I would suffer not from the scourge of rejection.

But...
On a second thought,

What will I call her,
An epitome of exquisite tenderness,
The subject of extravagant attraction,
The craze of awesome wonders.

Yet my heart has been pulled over,
dropped on a spike of embarrassment
and tied to a drum for shooting practice
My hands and legs are constrained as she dances around me performing her ritual right,
For I am another sacrifice for her center of attraction
My eyes have been blindfolded that I may not see another
And my legs creepled that I may not runaway.

I have become so feeble,
My weakness counts with the days of the week
And my head too heavy to remain afloat
For I must drown in the path (that)I have traded.
My downfall has risen,
I must hurry now, mama must have been done with the digging.

My despair has worn me out
And the anchor of hopelessness keep me still
My tears has become the river in which I drown.
As I linger and limp on in disarray,
Lost in my own shadow,
I see the devil like vultures hovering over my soul,
Waiting to take me in piece.

...though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,
For my mama has called and there could be no more evil than this.
I must take the bold step
My grave awaits me,
A bold step to eternal dismay which seem more like a beacon of hope,
The peak of suffering which seem like the end of pain.
For my heart has been skewered and my senses barren.

Yet I wear a bleak smile,
With a glint of broke freshness,
I must carry my cross,
As Nature has tossed my fate into the whirlwind, that I may be lost forever.

Wait!
It's not a dream,
But the thought of pain and despair, the thought of violent dismay,
THE THOUGHT OF HOPELESSNESS.

              AWARI PRINCE.

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