Pick up and take off
Hey little bird flyaway home
Home where you belong
Hey Little bird flyaway free

Pick a place and take it
Hey Little bird flyaway stray
Stray stowaway to somewhere new
Hey Little bird flyaway free

Pick away and take away
Hey Little bird flyaway
Away from yourself
Hey Little bird flyaway

You wonder why she loved you
Deceit lust and betrayal
But  she did,eyes blinded
Till truth unfolds with time
Love it fades in the face of reality
Bitter but real

Let her flyaway
Let her breakfree

Listen,the sound of drums
Toes taping in rejoicing
Hear  the the laughter of freedom
She is no longer your prisoner
Let her walk with her head held high
She is beauty,elegance and dignity

You wonder why she loved you
Toture disrespect and hate
But she did,Ignorance
She held on though her blistered palm
Knowing not her worth

But she knows today
See she smiles at her reflection
She is beautiful not because you say


Let her flyaway
Let her breakfree

Scream,
   Make me cry
           Break me
                 I dare you,
                          Just try.
                      I want you to know
                I don't believe a word you say
                Why won't you give up,
                           Just stop trying
         You can't make me stay
Why won't you stop lying?

All I want is to fly away.

It's getting hard in the RSA
even those who don't get paid have to pay
the insane tolls
the cops on petrol
just to get on there way
you under stand what I say
the difrance between we and they we have hi-def blue ray they have it hard desray it means destiny I don't have a plan to get a fan or a groupie I know you probably thinking this ****** mind is doodie but its my duty to make things know especially the things that aren't shown on tv like corruption or so called special selection and the detention of those who don't deserve it because you deserve it

I'm on buzz cause of this love I'm getting from my team it feels like a dream I'll rise to the top like cream but with skin like milk chocolate my imagination flows like water out of a facet, tap I've got talent in the rap and my connection to my soul  is uncapped
I'm just warming up like a kettle I'm like a precise metal in fact I'm talent in its purest form I should be on cable or at least the periodic table but registered as unstable because I'm on a hair trigger jack rabbit with my bad habits like talking about things I don't know then asking   About things I don't know you know making the unknown known remember my curiosity  been burning like an ember

I truly fear for our women ashamed of the cards they have been given or delt and the blows that have been felt on their surface and in their core these stories I hear just leave my heart sore I need to flyaway on the broken wings of my generation with the help of some recreation  to stop the exploitation of those who don't know better not because they could have Learnt better but been taught better you can call It third world problems I call it mankind problems because it affects us all and we're all one after all ilitaration is a mews helps send across my point of view so light bulbs flash ding an idea that's was a great example of onomatapia  it's a process of elimination in a  copulative form these thoughts and ties are more messy  then the perfect storm but I plan to help heal our nation not by confrontation but cooperation

I hope these notions stay in your mind like the blank slate sticks with the blind and the peace with the deaf order In the hands of the ref or better yet Organised chaos,
Because that's realistic But we didnt request it, It's like a pay off  see there I changed the rhyme scheme From aabb.Too abba It's redundant to say But it helps me see,
my potential so I know my credentials and knowing you is essential to keep your heart full your flaws on tour don't think it  trifle but gargantuan like Rabelais' book but most wouldn't know his literature or calling any man sir  but they know facebook I hope these notions stay in your mind like the blank slate sticks with the blind and the peace with the deaf by now I'd  think you'd like to be deaf tired of my voice but I have no choice but to make a statement about what my emotional state is I hope these notions stay in your mind like the blank slate sticks with the blind and the peace with the deaf the name of this poem is emotional theft

I was born into a
Hall of wooden pews and
Sundays full of crinkling satin bows,
Confronted by a stern-faced woman with iron grey curls
Tighter than her heart.
I remember very little of those
Sunday rooms, mazes of correct answers and long half-hours
I was raised through new pews,
Carpeted halls and
Long hours with brown haired ladies
A book 1200 pages thick of
Tradition and my mother's folded hands as I peek
From under my bowed head,
Earning sharp reprimands from white  robed men.

I saw them,
Of course,
Walking in Dearborn, Detroit, Ann Arbor, far away lands of unrest, but
They weren't in little, white, homogenous Chelsea, Michigan,
Of course,
Not them.
Yet I marveled at soft amber skin
And deep chocolate eyes full of
More galaxies than I ever knew existed,
Split solar systems of hushed mosques and mosaics that I was never
Allowed to see.

But I loved it.

My room became a tiny haven,
My dusty mirror showing a soft headscarf wrapped carefully,
Gently,
Over flyaway frizz,
Green cotton matching hazel eyes.
I knew not the complexities,
So I faked them,
Simply kneeling because I could not
Remember all the beautiful
Dances of prostration to praise another name of God.
Foreign syllables try to roll from my strangely
English tongue; I never realized how
Odd and stiff my born language is,
Too full of contradictions and
Double entendres, strict lines of black and white
Inky blood spilled on snowy sheets of paper,
Ancient characters telling me how to live my life.
As far as I'm concerned,
Allah (swt) and God are just two names
For the same deity,
And I simply preferred
Fajr
Dhuhr
'Asr
Maghrib
'Isha
Over the Lord's Prayer and
Hail Mary.
My rosary beads were quiet patches of rakaahs
Though I could not pronounce any of the words.

I kept secrets too heavy to lift into the
Dark recesses of my mental hiding-holes
Instead dwelling in discrepancies and dealing in bargains.
Half of me fit perfectly to each,
A blasphemous picture of the ****** Mary
Transposed to the cover of a Qur'an
I had never opened, like the
Guilt-edged pages of Bibles growing weary
Under my desk.
Two irreconcilable pieces of religion,
Broken images of stained glass crowns
That can't be formed into the intricate patterns of an
"Exotic" heart.
So for today I pack away my rakaahs and prostrations in a wooden box,
And take up my cross again.
Someday, though,
My heart will chase itself through the five pillars,
And I will shake out the green cotton,
Wrapping it carefully over a flyaway soul.

my heart is something I can’t hold onto
it flies away with the breeze
and if I reach out my hand to catch it
it just sits quiet on my sleeve
and it has a bad habit of breaking
though I put it together with glue
that heart doesn’t like what my head says
which leaves me just tired and confused

it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. it was a pyrrhic love, it was a herculean love. how the new life will begin i do not know,
but i know it will come from the lovers,
the loverly trees sprung forth at my
birth.
i can't comb out my eyelashes,
i cannot comb these lice out of my eyelashes
i wish i did not have lice
please give me an excuse not to change my sheets
i miss the girl in my bed
i wish i did not have lice
just say something back to me

his Eyes are the leafy root of a carrot,
Portals to the sustenance underground.
his Feet are bare but determined to go far.
his mouth is a canopy to a dense forest
Hiding from the world, what lays inside.

his flyaway hair, like a fallen piece of bark,
an imperfection that's part of a perfect picture.
his Thoughts are raindrops pouring off of an elephant leaf,
Small indentations flowing from a vast expanse.
his Voice is the wind, carrying me away to a better place.

his Charisma is Grandfather Mountain who holds old wisdom,
ever durable through the storm.
his Past, a collection of sand,
is molding into a seashell that will take a lifetime to form.
his Soul is a pinecone,
Guarded on the outside but holds something precious to me.

It was dark outside,
Sun is yet to break the dark quilt of night,
I was on my bed,
Fighting with slumber and trance!
Fight hours after hours.... nothing comes out..
All of a sudden wake up with the sound in my door,
Run and open...
Newspaper was on the floor,
The hawker was passed by on his bicycle,
Sun already on the top of the mango tree,
My trance flyaway and stupor enclose by..
But reverie of politics over news paper again beat on..
  If you vote you will change your state of happiness.... with words on to with wealth