Razor is my man, loves me and calls me “son”. Speaks to me like a Father so I joined his gang “Blades in the Hood”, sooner than later.
My boy self was chained tight to papa, crying like a sissy every night, since he slammed the door shut, his face never again to see.
I lie… I see his face still… even at night curled up like a child.
I see his face in grown men
withering in pain,
begging for mercy,
every time our knives and guns do their thing…
target their prey.
And I hear the laughing voice in my head
“pay back time!”. Feeling like superman,
chains unlocked and riding high…
But …but another voice like mama’s rings
louder “life is a lie, get help now!”
Life is a lie, I need help now!
In this spoken word piece “Gang Life not a Life”, the reasons, futility and dangers of gang life are addressed and highlighted:
Gang life, not a life but a distraction, a bonding of vision borne out of anger, a uniting of mission unto danger.
Don’t wanna feel a reck!
Opposing society is the gang man, sees his ego, it’s downsizing.
Don’t wanna to be kept in check!
Inflating as somebody, while society deflates him: a nobody.
Don’t care about a pay cheque!
Walking in step with the corrupt, in unison they trek to no man’s land.
Absolutely must gain respect!
Hailed as a destroyer, gang land trophies to amass: preferred, than be mocked: a worm in the hood.
Gang life, composing a future jail bird’s song.
Gang life, weaving a eulogy to come.
Gang life…not a life !
Also posted in my new blog: The Witness Institute please subscribe: http://thewitnessinstitute.org
Spoken Word. Introduction: There is much conflict everywhere; between nations, people groups, family members, workmates and associates or friends. Conflicts unleash verbal attack and acts of violence and makes for a chaotic world…At times when we read the papers and listen to the news, we can easily conclude that this is what our world looks like… this is not entirely true! But yes let’s face it, this is a normal state of affairs…
A diverse hue of people assemble not for peace but to poke the finger and launch diatribes.
Mistrusting, they inter-relate with suspicion and the daily eruption of rage that simmers beneath negative vibes.
Cacophony of tongues wagging at one another is heard as gun shots in trenches of war.
Casualties bleed from the force of deadly words, their hopes and dreams shattered ‘cause of paralysis from bombastic assaults on their souls.
Hatred is a sword cutting threads of love, piercing hearts of empathy, in this age under siege with the whirlwind of diatribes, once a rarity now a heart wrenching calamity.
Commemorating Mental Health Awareness day (10/10/2018) a poem (inspired by the image below)
The Man Child …Still
The contours around
his eyes are cracked
with smile tracks.
They hide internal
frowns, a well-worn
Speaking to please,
he engages in many a
tiresome task for
accolades and praise.
Still, his inner man
hears the voices of dread,
feels dad’s hands hitting
his head. He wants to run,
but no where is there to hide.
So he fakes strength
and a life of fun.
Anything goes for
ecstasy and mirth.
Still, his inner child
dreads the break of day
head buried as in sand,
wishing he would die or be
Her name was worthy.
She lived on abundance street, things were plentiful so was her guilt towards those with little, it was so pitiful.
With the best education in her quiver, knowledge as power was not great for it led to self debasing and the sinkhole of depression.
Showers of expressive love felt like pins and needles bruising her body as she decoded massive hate was at the pinnacle.
Words of kindness were like darts hitting her heart as she defined the glare of their eyes as cold and calculating.
Sought after by many who saw her as wise, she obliged, though hated the popular ride, so at times she would feign sickness and hide.
She rolled her eyes when her name “Worthy” was praised, crying out “why me and not them!”
Her inner self she deemed unworthy to be trapped in a life where she always felt guilty.
Escape she finally did in the cracked mirror of her destiny to create for herself a reality in that place of her preferred identity.
©️16-June2018 DEN -The Witness
Domestic violence is the worst thing that can happen to anyone in their home. If not anywhere else, a home is where people are supposed to feel the most secure and unafraid. Domestic violence strips one of their basic human dignity and worth. Under a great magnitude of oppression, victims can only sink further into the abyss of depression with no way of escape.
Be a voice among others to speak out and campaign against domestic violence!
Many victims as this one in the poem “Domestic Death Trap” live in denial, accept and make excuses while suffering so that they empower the abuser…
If your voice could help the cause, campaign or even be heard by one or more victims, whether they are male or female and cause them to leave their demeaning and violent domestic environment you would have done a great service to humanity.
Domestic Death Trap
Slapped once, reassured of his love.
He broke her ribs twice. “I fell down the stairs” she said.
For him she always lied.
Pushed so hard against the door, the wood cracked. He begged for forgiveness.
Who told her of her worth, that she needed to leave to live?
Her true friends tried.
“His unfounded jealousy, blind rage were due to stress” she said.
Her excuses for him dismayed.
The police found her dead body in a forest, battered and bruised.
With no evidence nor history of violence, he was free.
So another victim he tried.
While in a grave his wife laid.
©22-03-2018 DEN-The Witness
Living in a vast world yet knowing
so little, they two in one, so alike yet so
different, eating and loving in their dark
enclosure, not knowing that they were
being watched by an intruder.
Who unseen but knowing so much.
Now they are drowning victims of
mass destruction. In the hot sea they wail.
The people are at their death.
The green flag of the intruder gaily
waves as if to say “I told you it would happen”
It is too late my friends,
the rich word of “peace” has sunken.
The ball of destruction you created
Who is the mysterious intruder?
Is he one from above?
From there where joy abounds,
where there is peace unknown to
here down under?
©1984 Deborah E. Nyamekye
The world is a circus in the dead of night with bestial ways abounding
as men display their skills and talents to an audience preferring the vile and dangerous feats in life’s parade.
The hypocrite and deceiver is the masked mocker, the clown who
manipulates and seduces the crowd for loud laughs and reverence, but strikes when one’s guard is down.
The broken and maimed form a continuous procession along the streets as on a carousel.
A people whose fate is for the gain of the owner of keys to their chains.
Fearful and oppressed nerves jitter as on a roller coaster.
Confused and worried minds dizzy in thought as on a merry go round.
Well suited masses are a shadow of their true selves, each a reflection of someone else.
The living dead, consumed with self are performers in the concert of life. As circus artists in camouflage they dance the jive of death to the tune of funeral criers and church bell chimes.
The world is a circus in crises in the dead of night, will it welcome broad day light and the appearance of the healer, a true giver of life?
©2016 Deborah E.Nyamekye
This poem was inspired by the sight (on the News) of the 5 year old boy Omran covered in mud and blood seated in an ambulance after being rescued from a building that exploded due to an airstrike in war torn Aleppo, Syria.
Can you imagine?
Life in a place of devastation,
bombs flying hither and tither.
Your emotions shattered to smithereens,
as the buildings and lives around
you and knocked down trees.
Can you imagine?
Whole families disappearing
’cause of bombing and the
hurling of grenades,
either by death or fleeing homes
in areas declared eery war zones.
Can you imagine?
Babes, new born and as young
as five covered in mud,
blood and the wrappings of death,
either for burial or to live as zombies, along walking dead paths.
Can you imagine?
Adults wailing, children
screaming, dogs whimpering.
The earth shaking at the
weight of multitudes fleeing.
The sounds of glass shattering
and buildings exploding.
The sight of bodies assaulted
and raped lying lifeless on
concrete spattered streets.
Can you imagine?
The silence of a ghost town
that once was filled with
laughter ’cause of the circus clown,
and people striding at ease
along its well paved streets.
With children playing and
Can you imagine?
Some can only imagine,
what is another’s reality;
A reality of life torn to shreds
trampled underfoot and
devastated by war and threats.
I can only imagine.
©2016 Deborah E. Nyamekye
Man’s eyes gaze in twilight
Oblivious to war.
War which aids in human squander.
Hands mould contraptions for man’s departure.
A deceptive cloud forms over the horizon.
It rains in the heart of the innocent as thunder becomes the
stuttering of guns and lightening the rapid release of fire.
Finally the storm will unite destructive forces and even
peacemakers will suffer. Many from past storms will weep
and blame not the hands or machines but the deadliest of weapons
THE HUMAN MIND
©1985 Deborah E. Nyamekye