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No one knows your name,
exact the one who gave you your title,
Maybe it’s fine, they want the shooter’s fame,
And you, you want what’s vital.

The subtle search, in these pages, of magic sometimes subdued
by the here and now of your situation,
Adroit written literature got you, briefly, numbed,
And wishing that you can also create oasis in this location.

You’re black, not like the tar, but the ink
Ancestors have breathed in certain formation,
You’re the tool between author and book, link,
Putting pain and joy in novel written solution.
Black kids, especially in the locations, are not encouraged to read or don’t read enough books. I feel sorrow because many black kids are missing out in the god-given magic of reading a book. I took inspiration from African focklores.
What a lonely heart remembers
Is what it needs to forget
And a lonely heart forgets
How to remember to forget…
In an attempt to survive
Many moons of us walking opposing paths
And alas, Pandora who woke me quite early
To cleanse long to be odourless for fortnights
Pressured me to test my lactose-sensitive belly
While smiling statuesque, to hiking long paths
Sorry is Pandora whom I never kissed
Who had a chance to ******* tender lips
While we were merry on the 50 coins train
I made a move, sad yet brave, to be denied.
Many moons of us walking opposing paths
Pandora pondered, put perspective and placed
herself in the awkward position to tell me sorry.
I accept your sorry but I have questions, longing for answers
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