-my decrepit state is an art form, and
I will always allow myself colour;
Bursts of laughter, toasts,
Sex, and hope, in all that would come afterwards.
I couldn't always cling to it,
They say, the hands of a poet
When the bangles of misery
Begin wrapping themselves
'Round the tattooed arms of youth.
I still seek the truth,
And lend myself to his jargon-
Pretending to understand,
Pretending to know;
Keeping up the appearance, of someone
Whose eyes, have a view of their head,
While really, I know so little,
That my bones crack whenever
Knowledge jumps at me,
From the pages of his biography.
And secretly, I buck violently-
Corner-to-corner, like a stone
Underneath a floor, trembling by some vibration.
And sometimes I even cry more than
An appalled god, whose hair
Was cut by his angels; whose followers
Turned their heads,
Whose heaven suddenly
Became so earth, he had to stoop.
I was a child of his parenthood,
Taking baby steps,
And tryin'a convince myself
That, I will supersede
The bangles of misery,
By turning my tears into art.
© Raeez Jacobs. 2012.