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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Monday, 20 October 2014

Growing up.

Growing up is tough in African tradition,
at least given chance to speak for myself.
Attention given is usually minimal,
yet it's also safe to say,
a lot of attention is equivalently as bad.
But grooming a child isn't something prescribed,
people do things in different manners,
some acceptable to stigma,
some related to dogma
but it's all just one big enigma.
So, I can't say I wasn't raised well,
at the end of the day,
I ask myself what I didn't get?

I'd say love.

Ayeh, in our tradition love is accompanied by money.
So if you can buy some honey,
spread your bread on both sides;
you're probably loved more than most.
and your host, unlike most,
has done his job as man of the house.
The journey is similar to plant,
you're irrigated all your life,
your blanket kisses you goodnight-
You're submerged in provision,
as they await you to mature,
to sprout into a firm trunk
on which you can stand on your own,
then roles roll over...
It's a scripture play out,
once you're in, its time for the wait,
when you're out, it's time for debate.
What food? Which clothes?
What school? What Uni?
All in all they strive to give you what you need.
and that's the greatest love of all;
provision till fate turns tables.
Growing up; therefore, is tough,
children lack mentors, guides, fathers.
They only have a provider and mother,
it's a tough world!
One were clearly mistakes are often repeated,
but whose to blame for tales of the old untold?
Whose to blame for the questions unquestioned?
It goes both ways, basically goes without say;
love is a two way street,
and very often in these relationships,
children find themselves strolling all alone,
and parents, feeling all alone.
So growth by collision is rarely intentional,
It's often as highway collisions are;

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