They say God works in mysterious ways…let’s hope this young genius boy proves God’s ingenious ways. A poet, profoundly compound, some say he was Godly driven. Finally, a chance proudly found, he was to prove himself in poetry Godly given. It was nearing winter, writers and poets shiver… as each prepare to prove, they’re not just a sinner. It was the ultimate ‘spoken word’ talent search, respect goes to the winner. He has been waiting for this moment all his life.
His stream of consciousness was so deep; he never saw the way, busy sharpening ciphers in mind and bag crafting the perfect knife. The streets of Hillbrow hailed him in, like the seat of death row kills the men. The taxi driver forgot him and took a detour by accident. Our talent was left dumb-founded, unaware; he dropped off at the core of Esselen. Just a blink, the exit of a bullet hole brought him home; he was caught in a triangle of beasts, the piece demanded his phone and so he reached…but there’s no trust amongst thieves, so the piece found peace in a heart hole. The heat from his chest made him dizzy; he realised the bullet must’ve went in…he felt his soul…and so he fell and found peace in God’s hole…piece was just glad it’s over, plus he was on drugs and **** so it really did not matter. The others were excited over the money they could consume from the cell phone to escape being sober, piece just watched…and took what was left, the bag. Somehow this time Victory didn’t feel so good, he left unnoticed ‘coz he felt it was a nag. He knew the demons were coming later that night for what he did. In his mind rolling trees nightly pushes the clock of insanity anti; he has to blunt to fight the dead. He arrived at his place he calls it the ‘cave’, he closed the door, threw the bag on the floor, and rolled a blunt as he sat on his favourite place, many call it a crate. The trees had him focused on the bag what’s inside? He tried to ignore it ‘coz he knew it was the **** burning his curiosity inside, but nevertheless gave into his own insight. He opened the bag, and found papers, papers and papers…he went on a rampage crying, he found nothing for buying and felt like dying, to replace the Man he killed for papers, papers and papers…Time passed and somehow the sun kept shining through his nightmares, day-by-day, week-by-week, month-by-month, he read each page with sight and care. piece even learned how to utilize the dictionary, he tried to show his friends, but they sparked jealousy ‘coz in him they could sense a flair. piece went on and dug deeper, he felt the dead man’s poetry and wanted to know more about life, he started reading the newspaper. His friends, his only family thought he’s strange, piece again tried to explain the change ‘coz once in while he would smoke fire with Rastafari, they taught him to take time for soul searching, death comes at any age. It’s true, piece was changing…he even started writing poetry, but always wondered…will people listen to a background of poverty? One day, piece was taken by surprise; one of his friends showed him an article on the newspaper about the man he killed. The Police failed to find the killer, so the case was sealed. piece felt pain when he read about the dead man’s mission and immediately understood the burden he carried to continue that mission. The article was also based on a Tribute that was to take place that winter. Piece knew what he had to do to prove he’s not just a sinner. Winter came with flu’s and coughs, piece came with dos and don’ts. He managed to arrive at the place where the Tribute was held. He heard poetry recitations in progress, heartfelt and felt a bit nervous, but for some reason he looked up and said help. Unexpectedly, piece didn’t know he had to pay to get in, ‘coz he saw white men just go in. He knew he smelt bad, the doorman kept touching his nose; piece always said his armpits have a mind of its own. The doorman found hate quick and pushed piece to the ground like he’s sick, organisers saw…piece stood up, picked up his papers as tears fell down, a bit hurt but even more his heart was sore. Organisers asked him why he came, piece said it’s not a game, it’s about his name. He was told the recitations were to end, hence he pleaded if he could just blend. He was not prepared to give up on the Late just because a commotion says it’s too late, therefore he climbed on the stage and said,
“I killed a Man, your Tribute through him I found peace…
Listen why I call this poem, piece!”
Kabel©