I am a Poet

 Ostensibly, it all feels like;

"I've known voices of the wind 

and maybe all it's journeys, 

it's melodies of melancholy

that ears may never hear 

blowing passed blooming faces

of those who only feel it's soothe

but not the inconsolable sobs

it carries on from faces of those 

who can't even remember how 

and when they last smiled,

those to whom happiness is

just a dream."

I've got great feelings,

of acquaintance with 

every falling droplet of rain, 

vehemently hiting the ground 

splitting into thousands of 

other splashes of driblets

and all the autumn leaves

floating on waves of headwinds 

I feel every single pain in their voices 

on their journeys set for demise

I find my self reciting rythimic surahs

into melodic euological verses, 

for the friends gone too soon. 

With no moon,

I'm stuck in my own realm

nary a wanning crescent 

with a bunch of wistful emotions

cracking tales down

told by burning flames

whispering to their smoke

yet though shining unto those 

who never notice their sacrifices 

those who will never recognize,

their souls rising up in form of smoke

the moment they breathe their last, 

just to light thier night! 

As mortar and pestle pound

I am thrilled safe and sound

in the atmosphere all around 

on the back, stands my hair

every tom kick hat and snare

thoroughly through like a flair 

auditory auras of mesmerize

send tinges chills and shudders

up a spine down to it's lowest 

I feel all the broken inside mend

painting worlds behind closed eyes

with rainbows and swirls of butterflies. 

I am a Poet and, 

on sight of a newly born 

I feel every sensation;

"from an egg languidly 

rolling out my right ovary 

through falupian tubes and,

immediately after fertilization

I wince from a pinch of implant 

on the walls of my uterus 

traveling through a time of kicks

and feeling the weight of the wait

after nine, like in pushes I groan 

to the first cries when I climax in bliss.

november (the black poet)

©2023