I'm sorry I'm not what you exPected me to be.
I'm sorry I'lL never babysit your kids when I'm frEe.
I'm sorry I couldn't help mom get through all of the hell
I'm sorry I left my responsibilities on the shelf
I'm sorry I'm cant function like a normal Adult
I'm sorry we had to put you in the ground where it'S cold
I'm sorry you were murdered whEn it should have been me
I'm sorry you died with so much left to see
I'm sorry that I'm crying while I'm writing tHis
I'm sorry that my apologies make such a big list.
I'm sorry I'm going to be a burdEn to the world
I'm sorry that our mom had to lose her baby girl
I'm sorry I'm so hatefuL every single day
I'm sorry I can't smile in a genuine way
I'm sorry I can't helP anyone that needs it
I'm sorry that I'm going crazy even if I don't believe it
I'm sorry I let my hate grow so big when I know it would make you sad
I'm sorry I let my outlook on life get this fucking bad
I'm sorry I stay up late and forget to get rest
I'm sorry that on every holiday I'm a graveside guest
I'm sorry I have to say all this in the first place
I'm sorry that I'll never get to say it to your face.
I'm sorry you died and I'm still here
I'm sorry that the thought of living makes me shed a tear.
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of sex with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for sex with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The Negro of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The Negro bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
Wench, clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
The brain freeze of
mundane ordinary life squish.
the mellow death of everything
hopeful, mischievous, quizzical
remembered only at a sad graveside funeral
in the back of the trailer-park of your brain.