by Abubakar Elbasha
I write, for the same reason I live, to make art,
And I can’t draw for shit, but…
I can lace the pad with style and grace with words that trace
Deeper than the expressions on my face.
I use poemss to paint portraits and spoken word to unleash the beast in me that’s dying to be heard.
I write, because it’s my only outlet,
For all the pain and suffering of guilt and regret and,
Sometimes I forget what I’m depressed about
But the flame is never put out
And so I have to let it out.
Let my soul breathe because the flame was lit by shit.
Not Hydrogen, Gasoline or Kerosine, but the Methane off of shit.
Not bullshit, elephant shit or any other huge mammal shit, much worse.
I’m talking about the smelliest, most disgusting,
most flammable shit on earth,
Human Shit.
Human shit is intriguing
Because humans are the only animals that can shit without an anus,
They shit with their mouths too, its insane but its true.
And the gas off that shit sets my flame, the flame under my skin that scars me from within,
what would seem to you as a poem is just me blowing off some steam,
Because I have tasted shit, and let me tell you,
It ain’t no sour cream.
I write because when my brain wont let me sleep at night
I need to let my true colours show,
In a world that shines im reduced to a glow
Because I’m gifted,
Or as they would say ‘diseased’ with a virus called creativity and intelligence.
Intelligence deemed irrelevant because it never fits inside a checkmark box,
And when the world punctures my soul, and through the hole gushes my blood,
I let it spill on the page and let my rage command the flow,
So every cell knows where it should go,
I write because every cell is a thousand words, and every drop has millions of cells,
But you never only bleed one drop.
Do you see how much I have to tell?
I write because life will make you jump through hoops and rings
And I write to control my fear because fear will make you do things, Yes.
I am scared.
Scared for my life livelyhood like a snitch,
Scared of the fact that I can make it out of prizon with my anus intact,
And still end up society’s bitch,
A bitch for the rich who will cut your heart out while you can’t even afford a single stitch.
I write because I can’t stand regular, I can’t stand being normal,
I’ll wear flip flops to court I don’t give a flying %#$& about being formal,
If im being judged for being different then whats the point pf dressing up,
I’ll still get locked in a prizon under your skin with all the flames ignited by the jury’s shit.
I write because reality wont let me be,
So you can lock me up but I’ll never give up my poetry.
I write, because my mind gets lost in the abyss of nothingness and its darkest pits are the deepest,
Delusionising me from the light of sheer bliss because the definition of bliss is subjective,
And society’s definition is shit, light, can always be faked,
But the darkness in its shadow will always be real,
I write to get a grip, to feel real,
Because reality, is an illusion and only once you break free can you see, and be real,
Fantasy can be real if you let it be.
I write because the pad is my horcrux and without it i’d go mad,
I’d go insane, even more than I already am, but with the sanity I have left,
I’ll write until I’m braindead, whether being serious or for the heck of it,
Because life, without poetry,
Is Human Shit.
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