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Deep I weep; you sleep too steep to keep this pen running.
My sun has kissed the river yond frowning west,
Who will keep this city's fire burning
When I'm gone down the earth in conquest
And my era fades with jealousy as time joys at my misery
Who will draw these swords to glory?

I see nobody, no linen of hope across the silver sky.
Maybe I need binoculars 'cause it is like a facade
When musty poets make this my truth a lie
They force me to switch these meters to bars, how sad!
Facebook children, don't face their books
Clowns leave the stage to faze the books.

'Pope Drey Hommies' hails the Vatican city
But broken lines stretch across my cheeks like a bow
The audience murmur in sorrows 'Who shall be like unto thee'?
For couple of years I should retire, I'll take a bow
''If virgin Mary had an abortion I'll still be carried on stampeding horse''
But for you poets I still carry the cross.

Who shall be your Messiah, L3?
When modern poets don't learn the art but go to act
At Pen Drops on Ibom Poetry Day, will Blain AD?
Will Justin Jumbo too to my diss not blindly react?
I see nobody great, y'all still look up to me for lines
Still I devour sheets like an insatiable wolf flashing canines...

Killing and fading y'all when I wield the pen you bow in respect
I am like a dictionary I add meaning to your lives
Poetry and rap is my only dialect
Your schools are meaningless as long as I still cut you with knives.
Weaklings with weak words, you sadden my poetic chords
I see no rising pen out there to satisfy my poetic buds.

When grand-masters read me they see a living myth yet unpublished
But you are all still-born birthed of the melancholic pregnancy of art
With many aids and training and school, yet are established.
Some of you were miss-carried you dissolve faster than fart
You only exist in dreams where you will have to sleep to live
You live too that I grieve with nothing to give.

You write to impress lovers and satisfy your greed
You know Milton, Maya, Soyinka, Achebe, Clerk, Shakespeare
And I'm nothing like these princes yet nothing of your breed
As long as I got pen you and I are nothing to compare
But if you bitches are trying to strip me of my confidence
Mission accomplished, but write back a condolence

Ye musty poets that cliche!

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If you are not familiar with Arthur Rimbaud, you must get acquainted fast. He was active as an adolescent poet in the 19th century, he stopped writing at the age of 21. But in the few years he wrote he created a new raw surrealism, prose poetry, and visionary poetry. I did a Masters Thesis on him in Paris, I'm an expert. He is perhaps now the most written about poet in 19th century French poetry after Baudelaire. I think you'll freak out when you read this guy.
His imagination was charged like yours, his rage at the tenants of poetry in his time, his deep inner suffering connected with his overwhelming creativity and just the demands youth into adulthood.
He will be a kindred spirit for you- the time and place may be totally different. If you do or don't know this poet, would love to hear about it. then I can have a conversation about this poem

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

I will love to know more...


author comment

there is total RAGE
in this poem
well done
you will be like him
and when you have won
thank all who helped you son...

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