Normally,
I write beautiful words
Dripping with obscurity,
Amalgamated allegories
Alleging and assuming
Acquiescence.
Today,
I sit in awe,
Fingering pages of print
Pressed
Between college courses
And career choice.
I wonder if writing
Wrote the stories
Only poetry can tell,
Draining ink pens
And leaving journals
Unanswered?
This is my book,
My life tree,
Rooted in the richness
Of Madagascar,
Miles of more than travel,
And moments where
Intelligence screamed to
Be more than loved: she
Needs expression.
Her limbs need to stretch
Further than fallacy,
Feeding souls hungry
For more than food,
And bear a strange fruit.
This is my book,
Porous words cutting
Through rocks,
And sitting on coffee tables,
Dressing up bookshelves,
Taught in classrooms
And archived as a National
Treasure: libraries need me.
This is me,
Written down.
Please, read.
