If I am rich,
then I’ll strive for joy and happiness rich;
If I am poor,
then I’ll strive for joy and happiness poor.
If I am popular,
then I’ll strive for joy and happiness popular;
If I am outcast,
then I’ll strive for joy and happiness outcast.
If  I am famous,
then I’ll strive for joy and happiness famous;
If I am unknown,
then I’ll strive for joy and happiness unknown.

What gives you the right
To try to shine so bright among stars
That climbed into the mantle of heaven,
With drug addled bodies
And the voices of angels.
How can you sit in constellations
That foretell the future
And the state of the nation.
Glitter and glow
For the evening show
And take a bow as an unknown sensation.

I would love to be a famous poet
Featured in literature, plagiarised,
Asked for comment, so and so
From somewhere (age) said
Verbatim, 'quotation marks'
To reveal a piece of myself,
Make known my stance on any
Subject, but I'm a van driver
From Essex, all I'm supposed
To talk about is football, which
I hate, though I look like Raffa
Which doesn't help (If you want
to see my face, look at him, my
Italian doppelganger)
I attract abuse,
People come up to me and call me
A ******
For some decision he made,
They're stupid but not actually stupid
Enough to believe Raffa works as a courier
In Essex, are they?
So I sit naked on my bed
Writing bad poetry
Wishing
I was someone else, instead
Of a Raffa alter ego,
A Poet
Who is quoted in literature, plagiarised
Asked for comment,
Someone who mattered and
Was listened to.

Lewis Carroll,
The numbers were driving him insane.

George Orwell,
His family didn't know yet.

Mark Twain,
His childhood on the rivers.

Even Lord Voldemort,
With a past to disguise.

A pseudonym is a weapon like no other.

Home is where the heart is?
No, the home is for the brain.
Cause when I'm out in the streets,
Then I can dance in the rain.
If I'm trapped in my house,
Then I will go insane.
***** waiting for the storm to pass,
Slowly trickling down the drain.
Having a friend is a pain in the ***,
When there's nothing to gain.
Stopped dead in my tracks, out of gas,
And I'm in the wrong lane.
I've been feeling that to the max,
Day after day,
But why wait for the storm to pass,
When you can dance in the rain.

This desert is our life.
From the dry earth we gather roots and melons.
Over the endless sands we hunt the gemsbok and the springbok.
  
Sometimes the ga roots are shriveled and bitter.
Sometimes men are sick with thirst and hunger.
  
When there is water we drink and sing and clap our hands.
When there is food we eat and dance and clap our hands.
  
The eland does not come to us and ask to be eaten --
one must know how to make the arrow and poison it
and where to look and how to hide and shoot. . . .
  
What man is so foolish as to expect more? To expect
the rain to be always falling, his eggs full of water and
his stomach full of meat?
  
You have strong animals to carry you.
You have much food and water.
Your digging sticks are hard and sharp.
Your shooting-sticks are like lightning.
  
You are a powerful man and a good man.
I can see that in your eyes.

But what you offer is a dream.
  
You can give us water and meat.
You can fill our hands with tobacco and perfect beads.

But you cannot give us happiness.

  
A man can only drink so much and then he is full.
If a man is always eating honey, he tires of it and becomes sick.
  
And even if all life were sweet --
what man is not food for lions and dogs?
A man who has tasted in his life no bitterness will find death very bitter.
  
My mouth longs for sweetness
but sweetness brings bitterness
and in the end they are one.
  
So I ask you:
Take your digging sticks and your shooting-sticks.
And do not leave them behind.
Go to the green lands you came from.
We shall walk in this desert as we always have.