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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Saturday, 2 April 2016


"You're fucked up!" My friend said to my brother,
who handed him back a crooked one side smile
with a hefty drug eyed look and replied,
"I'm worse than that!"

He has been there,
not once, not twice, not thrice,
to that dreadful place that gives aid-
to those that have lost self control,
and are being remote controlled,
by false parole that replicates freedom,
and hands it to them in a pricey basket.
At the value of intoxication and indoctrination-
of persona into the chains of;
addictive worship of an idol that-
when you are idle makes you slip and lose grip of self.
Makes people point fingers,
and wickedly cast judgement for to them-
ending up in butabika; a place of serenity,
a place where the so called "crazies" be
where doctors are paid to revive your identity...
Is an abomination, a reason for your-
discrimination against the sober nation.
For after one too many shots-
of benzene and hits of nicotine,
sips of eagle and glasses of Nuvo,
that give you wings and boost your ego.
You start to exude of a being that isn't you;
a possessed being, an example-
that things can get out of hand,
and that if one is smart they can learn.
To respect what drugs and alcohol-
did and are doing to my brother.
A young man from a family so grand,
yet just like any other out there
for a problem is a problem,
whether you are rich or poor-
it treats us all without bias!

He said, "I have no control over it,
trails of cigarette buds on the road,
lead me to the same old route..."
I had never noticed buds on the road,
that's when I learnt how the mind works,
If you feed it one to many pleasures,
it magnifies their importance to your system.

And for a young man his age,
he sails the clouds ever so often,
and when it's time to come down to earth,
he sky dives and lands into pools of alcohol.

Where he keeps swimming in the deep end,
and even if the scars weigh down his heart,
even if hits from constant shots bring him down;
I tell him, I urge him,
that his soul is bullet proof,
nothing can hurt him but himself!

Ayeh still! He gives into his bodily demands,
and despite losing respect for everyone else,
he once again loses all utter respect for self,
and back tracks like a record player only-
to treat himself- his body with disregard and-
gets sucked out of his gourd and out of control....

Special shout out to Mugoda Gordons

1 comment:

  1. This was co-written along side a friend of mine, Mugoda Gordon, well known as "Wake, the poet."