I am that which i wish myself
the first son to pay at the first sun
I, not void of the happenings, thrusts,
i do with the pen, say, am i a poet?
an uncle, a brother or a son

I seem to have it in my head
proffering solutions with anger
it runs, i say through our veins
not quenching the thirst, relieving the danger
blood spats head smashed and wonder what gains

I am that which i wish myself
the first son to pay at the first sun