Father, let me show you what it’s like
to be bleeding lymphopenia every time.
My head has become a dogfight stimulator-
a place where memories are agitating.
Imagine me memorizing blank in my studies-
in the labyrinth of grief you’ve sold.
In your body, a threnody of schizophrenia
slices me into heavy scares making dirge.
Imagine sleeping with injuries in my heart
which the pains of bitter melanin had
suits heavily in my dreams.
Imagine being devoured by barrels of load
you couldn’t finished.
Thoughts disappearing at regular interval.
The scars you wield are drifting into an elastic placenta- burdens fully matured.
My body is a multiple of sett bore
where you won’t caress without drilling a lamentation.
My dreams are albums
recorded as evidence of wounds you sold.
My burdens are televised flake
attached on imagery that would sewn in tremor.
My tears are this poem rolling into gratitude: carving out strong boys who never cries nor succumbed to life’s protracted misfortune when their father had gone to meet with Eve’s daughter, but raid the streets with aweary foots, between the circuits of malevolent society in search of daily bread, as he hope his adventure find a bailout in the eyes of God.
I cannot tell how sorrow often
bings my body — eat me immodestly
or ding-dong the bruises factor on my mother.
imagine her thinking oftenly about sadness,
& your departure Pang in columns of tears
& I wonder, if being the first son
will justify all the loads of a father,
since you barely accomplished little?