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The Poem I didn't Write

The poem I didn't write,
it would have been,
an altar to my unappreciated talent,
a tapestry of words which my heart will lament,
it would be soulful and move you to tears,
and you'll say, “how did his name not reach our ears?”.
And I'd have called it,
“the shadows and talents”.

The poem I didn't write,
it was about how our motherland betrayed us,
how we went to the University to get an education,
and how we came back with just a Degree,
it would have been about job hunting frustration,
applications after application and updated CVs,
how our fathers had it cheap,
and I'd have called it,
“The Woes of a Gold Coast Graduate”.

The poem I didn't write,
it was long, very long,
it would have bridged
the boundless expanse that separates you from me,
it would be from the nadir of my anguish,
to the zenith of my pleasure,
about how we betrayed our love, many times,
it would put twinkles in your eyes,
and they'll call me a hopeless romantics,
blessed by Apollo,
I'd have called it,
“Bridges and Love”.

The poem I didn't write,
it was unapologetically fiery,
it would have lit up souls that were weary,
called to you live for what you believed not die,
for what good is belief when you in the grave lie?
It would have been a revolution,
it would have been an evolution,
it would have been only natural
that after reading you'd soldier on
though your feet were tired walking off to nowhere.
It'd speak against politician and their deep pockets,
it'd speak against men of religion and no religion.
It would increase your thirst for knowledge,
you'll drink it all in and you'd call it,
“African bushfire”.

The poem I didn't write,
it wouldn't have been full of Latin phrases,
it wouldn't have been full of Greek philosophies,
it would have filled the empty spaces,
created by indigestible knowledge
gained from learning and not knowing,
it would have made Aristotle, Plato, Socrates
and all those our parents learned about turn in their graves
for it contained nothing and everything.
It would have rebelled against conventional teaching,
it would have spoken against dogma.
It would have unmasked ignorance parading as wisdom,
and I'd have called it,
“Greek Philosophy is Dead”.

This is not the poem I didn't write,
that poem is lost in the dark crevasses of my mind,
far somewhere that won't for a while see light,
and yet from there its tormented howls reach your ear,
calling you to;
write that poem you didn't write,
sing that song you didn't sing,
stretch your hand and share that light,
take the next step, it could be your spring,
to greatness,
to oneness.
If this is the poem you didn't write,
then maybe you can call it,
“The Poem that I wrote”.

February 24, 2011

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