FROM THE BOTTOMLESS PIT

I stripped naked words spat by rulers of creativity world
I ate raw untamed unspoken word
My DNA got blessed with limitless poetical thoughts
I spat on critical thoughts and take away artistic creative draught

I dug deep into a pit that has spat insults to any form of measurements
I have fallen close to three decades without reaching my destination and pressure point
I have survived inhaling the air that only gives direction to the annointed creatives
And I now bow down at this altar of raw words with a gall to be sprinkle the imperatives

Emperial I am because of the soul I have taken from from poetical bottomless pit
Royal I have been declared through brain DNA traces of my cutless spits
I dug deep into the hearts of those who have souls blessed to analyse true poetic view
Deep inside the brains of those who spent years digging for tangible poetical stew

I have drunk and eaten from food for thoughts falling for centuries in this bottomless pit
I have not for a day derailed from the true mission of this selfless trip 

A PIECE FOR THE CRACKED HEADS

This poem does not have any gods to worship nor any ancestral roots to trace and follow. This poem knows no grammatical boundaries and abide by no poetical laws. It has defied poetical kings countless times and has encrafted bravery sprinkled with disobidience in its footprints. This poem was cooked and boiled by poetic thoughts so deep they turn hellfire into a holiday resort. This poem refuses to be classified by industrialists academics and authors into any form whether epic or otherwise. It knows no rules and laws of rhythm and shadows of rhymes. This poem asks no permission to knock into your house and does not amount to constitutional protocol. A poem that is an obligation of no religion and affiliates to no political party but walk in their dimension like a dictator. This poem hardly notifies legal frameworks and utters to spit bile at basic ethic fundamental laws of nature. It has positioned itself so it can be allegic to critics cannot be touched by analysts and is dictated by no reasoning. This poem cannot be unchained by academics but only by cracked heads who have bathed in tripple boiling waters of poetic streams.

THE LOST SCRIPTS

Melodies in my memories gone down the drain
Papers in mountains stacks that have come down and caused me pain
Showers monstrous in size swiped them away in quite rain
Demons so friendly have eaten them starring at me with a meticulous smile
And I am reminiscing at their golden contents which was to be my pride
Unlocking every door in my memory in search of their sign

Traces traces aluding me I am a lost course
The zillion pound worth words inscripted that I have lost
In my sleep they haunt me like a vengeful ghost
They beleive I was careless I was not paying attention to logistics
Scripts that stripped naked bodies of overfueled muscle politics
They have unleashed wrath upon my memory I am all agonistic

Lost scripts tainted in ancestral bloods of the most powerful tribes
Sprinkeled with urine of crocodiles and strengthened with elephant spine
Content drugged with creativity and drunk with poetic lime
These scripts that built marvells way beyond man's imagination
That have blessed babies with ability to found art of determination
As I bow down and rise again hoping my pen will cry in their dedication

DRINKING OCEANS OF CREATIVITY DRY

These  children that I gave birth to are melodies so sweet they massage the listeners' ears
They sooth a soul so trembling that it reflects a guardian of faith
Their claws so sharp they they piece though artistic brain and sprinkle creative pearls
Hope is born to roam upon ballistic stages and gather enormous incomparable brain

These girls that I stood for them to lend their first sight upon
Injected by ideas and thoughts so powerful they exist only in imagination
Are singing melodies that reflect curse to the dull and blessing to art created ages ago
Upon these dark walls they bright so much they give new definion to illumination

My boys are giants to unspoken words arenas known to men
Their voices postures and gestures introduce a billion words song sung by multitudes
Their rhythm so enormous it drinks juice in skies of joy and leave it open
Their whispers so passionate women have been seen writing their aptitude

These words of art are so huge they drink oceans of creativity dry
They are so soothing they rhythmise positive brains and leave the devil to cry