There is a PDiddy in every hustler,
A Mitchelle Obama in every lady,
A Barrack Obama in every child,
A Micheal Jackson in every singer/performer,
A TD Jakes in every preacher,
A Maya Angelou in every poet,
A Napoleon in every soldier
A Mother Theresa in every little girl,
A Henry Ford in every mechanic,
A Micheal Jordan in every basketball player,
A Picasso in every artist,
A Tupac in every gangster,
A Martin Luther King in every activist,
A Usain Bolt in every sprinter,
An Oprah Winfrey in every presenter,
An Einstein in every intelligent mind.

Greatness lives in each and every one of us
In whatever we do, whoever we are
wheresoever we're come from or go.


©️IB-Poetry
2/27/2018

how tragic is that sometimes the only way to lure the greatness out of her endless sleep is to torture the soul by life itslelf.

Through the darkness
Through the dancing flame
When faith was madness
In this drenching rain
When failure seemed supreme
And mocking faces orbit
When hope seemed unreal
With things hardwork *****.
This is where great men walked.

Through trials and many attempts
Through hardwork that never relent
Through sleepless nights and frustration
Their vision led by determination
When faith begins to wobble
Seek hope from the Almighty
Great hope they all gobble,
Strength to keep fighting
This is where great men walked.

Behold! A child is born
The reward of such great labour
Greatness with it core
The world bows with its favour
Then history is written
His greatness; this is the beginning.
This is where great men walked.

Painters and poets and playwrights
Have spent centuries convincing us that
Grief yields greatness
Out of sorrow is born supremacy

But the truth is
Great men are great men
Despite their bleeding wrists
Despite the misery carved into their bones
Despite their cut off ears and their stillborn infants

Art is the favorite daughter of brilliance
Who melancholy so slyly tries to steal as her own
To showcase as a gem
Amongst her own worn-out children:
Agony and suicide and irreparablilty

There is no glory in weakness
There is no museum to honour
Pain rolled up in a corner
Willing itself to stop existing
There is no concert arranged for a man
Who furiously runs his bow along violin strings
To produce ear splitting screeches

You and I will not colour our broken hearts
Shades of crimson or indigo
Nor will our ink stained fingers supply a voice
To a tortured soul's invisible turmoil
Instead pain will turn us into a monster
Or a recluse
Waiting desperately for that lightning flash of epiphany
To convert what little is left of us
Into a factory that churns gold