Friday, 13 October 2017


Gifted hands at sketching nudities since two
Mama’s proscription of demonic possessions scared you
The sun shone at your star and it was true
But you were too busy not breaking mama’s rule
Look at you!
The genius of Michelangelo was in your ink, as your tool
Too scared were you to break away from mama’s fallacious credo
You disappoint, you disappoint.

Many maybe every never stopped coitus with perversion
It is preferable to hide this truth with verbosity
But we weak
We just never take the prescription
Give the lad the letter, he nuzzles only the aesthetics
Take the truth to the hearers, they giggle at your diction and pronunciation
Take it to the gentiles, they say preach if they perceive no animosity
But all along they knew the message, just adored their akrasia
Somebody was not ready for the price 
Someone was not keen on nursing ambitions
You disappoint, you disappoint.

And when the time comes, you will know
It will be like thick smudge without rags to wipe
The time for you will come when your mornings meet the night
Then you would wish there was more to tapping your foot on the earth
Where your bright ideas mourn your weak flesh
When you are compelled by regrets to count your fallen stars
The birds of the air will assist your laments with dirges
You wake up into the best advices at grey hairs too late
The absurdities
Your weeping is then grouped with banal anonymity
But you knew you had a passion for drawing
But you refused to take the risk of further discoveries
But no buts.

And if it is fair to learn from a man’s regret
Will it be fair to be the man with such regrets?
Oh! Your choice
Pregnant with resources don’t guarantee a safe delivery of potentials
Too much passion without a thorough mental is a miscarriage
No ambition with abundant wits is murder
Akrasia is abstact noun,
Its reality is in a man’s indecisions
Its spark is in omissions of common knowledge
Its being is the weakness many never wrestle
But it is okay to grow slowly
It shows you love the message not the messenger

Maybe we are artists finding inks as duties
Like the boy, we sketching our purpose from its nudities
Unlike the boy, we sketch it with garments with a step into uncertainties
In our hands lie the ink and paper to write our stories
We are the means
Our silence is the weakness of will in the end
It is not enough to tell oneself that mediocrity is a concern
What you did not do about it makes you history
You disappoint, you disappoint.