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God is tryna tell me something

I have more questions
Than answers. 

Left to fester
into ulcers of disbelief
by Priests who
Brand me an Apostate. 

If you are there,
I still have questions. 

My Prayers
In vacuums of doubt. 

We don't speak
the same language anymore
but I feel like
God s tryna tell me something. 

*****Nov 18, 2018*****
God is tryna tell me something — •medie• (@dzyadzorm) November 18, 2018
Recent posts

For you my Arrogant Friend

It can’t be that you are that callous.That I took you in and you defame my family name, You worthless fool with no manners, Why didn’t I kick you between the legs when I had the chance?
It can’t be that you have no shame, That you ate my food and took a shit on my shoes, And had I not found you out, You would be teaching bad habits to my kids. Have you no respect for yourself?
You woke me up in the wee hours of the morning, Your alcohol laced voice interrupting my pleasant dreams, Why do you sing your out of tune song on my lawn, What sort of drunken gibberish were you babbling? Could it be that you’ve gotten any more insolent, That suddenly you have no respect for others of your kind? You constantly belittle them, You continually ridicule them, You point and you call them pagans, But you are no different from them, Your arrogance and hypocrisy damn you.
But then I can’t blame you, I only blame me, I spoke of you in Addis Ababa, I spoke of you in Accra, I spoke of you in the Zongos, And I fed your arrogance,

Ghana is no place for Dreams


A hawker
Tiredly taps
On the rolled window
Of a prisoner of traffic.

For sale:
Bootlegged aspirations
Bagged in small sizes
Sold at half price,
or less

On the radio,
There's a man
Talking incoherently.

The glazed-eyed
Traffic inmate
Hears neither the hawker
Nor the man.

Ghana is no place for dreams.

*****Sept 19, 2018*****
Ghana is no place for dreams. — jerome (@readJerome) September 18, 2018

A Black Woman's Hair (writer unknown)

Women of other ethnicities,
their hair falls by nature.

It drops, and drapes, and hangs loosely,
But a Black woman’s hair rises by nature
It blossoms against the current of life.At its best, it swirls and spins like the earth,
or the sun –
a supernova of sublimity and strength.

And like any other heavenly body,
a Black woman’s natural hair demands nothing less than orbit:
total praise from every physical thing within her influence,
all revolving around her omnipotence –
instinctively, humbly, and altogether.

Whether dynamically drifting,
or stationary and rooted,
every living thing that finds itself before a Black woman’s natural hair is designed to stare and wonder.

- Writer Unknown

Hero Worship

The air is thin And the landing narrow, Up, on the dizzying heights, Where we set our heroes.
There, gusty winds Neither holds brief Nor relief As they threaten to Humble all things that elevate themselves.
When like prayers We've offered flattery On altars of unrealistic expectations And our heroes, like golden calves, Glisten with pride, Know this, There surely is a reckoning When they come tumbling down.
We were the mob at the foot of the mountain Elevating them in adulation
We are the mob at the foot of the mountain Now shouting CRUCIFY HIM, CRUCIFY HIM, CRUCIFY HIM

Bats at 37

When bats at 37 take to flight, At a quarter past four Or, whatever time Accra heralds the night,

When bats at 37 take to flight, For me, there's not a more beautiful sight Of creatures, imagined or real, That lay claim to these glorious skies.

When bats at 37 take to flight, With fevered screeches that punctuate the night When by sheer numbers they darken the skies And, below, people of a superstitious disposition Can not be bothered, I am reminded that, Given enough time all things cease to be strange.

When bats at 37 take to flight, Devoid of vibrant plumes unlike most things that fly, Rising like Legion and the hordes of hell, In defiance of extermination attempts, Above the Hospital in elusive figurativeness, Haphazardly, in sync, over constipated traffic There is not a doubt who owns the peppered night.

When bats at 37 take to flight;

They Don't Teach us how to Grieve

They don't teach young men How to grieve.

Be a man, Stand strong, Men don't cry, They say.
That's how we are made.
Somewhere, There's a conveyor belt Constantly chucking out Boys, with pent-up toxic emotions, Shoulders hunched under the weight of society's expectations.
There's a piece of wood in my mouth I bite hard on it praying I don't black out As I saw off another weakness I saw in the mirror.
Something about Better to enter the Kingdom With one arm...
I don't know...
A brother died today,