MY LAST POEM

Penning my emotions despite my fears 
Livid with pain for injuring my soul 
I scribble my last poem on this page 
To remind the world I am sick of words 
My infinite pen has refused to cease leaking 
Sketches of verses have multiplied into books 
O how I used to think that was wonderful 
Very few issues have escaped the blitz of my pen 
The world has cajoled me to pen my mysteries 
Word by word, I have layed it all open 
My blithe nature dosen’t suprise my adversaries 
They keep knocking, mocking they want more 
I have heard poets preaching from street corners 
And wishing someone could resue their souls 
For poetry with gusto has refused to go away 

I have seen ingraines bustling with joy 
On my incapacity to write and be recognized 
I have read pieces that shouldn’t have been written 
To sages I have cried, is it an honour being a poet 
At times I have convinced myself of how boring poetry is 
Revealing my fears on how writing lays me open 
I am at risk for all my secrets shout in my pages 
Claiming “we’ve got him, Ha! Ha!, Ha! Ha!” 
My life has become a search and find game 
Though my amoury of words has defended me on some instances 
They made a woman fall in love unitentionally 
But I had my defence, she was the one bent on poetry 
I have had it in me and I feel I can write about everything 
I have delved into darkness searching for purpose 
Hoping light shone there too but nothing 

The idea of souls clinging on my pen has washed my hopes 
Crude thoughts surfaced in me, wondering if am a prophet 
Led me to believe my pen could start a cult 
So this is my last poem for I want to be free 
Free from the shakles of ineptitude, infatuation 
bigotry, insanity, hullabaloo, blasphemy and jotting 
My expression of self has made people think I am proud 
I thought writing was an indulgence maybe an insult 
But with each ink splattered providence sets in 
I’ve seen cliffs dancing and angels murmuring 
About the supreme wisdom my pen lays claim to 
Should I postpone my fate if I wish 
Do I have the power or could I change flowers 
It has been more of a lullaby as I weaned myself to death 
This is the beginning of a new revolution, I’ll let God guide me 

© Eddy Ongili 2013 
PenAftermath

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