Hope for a blind Cartographer
I begged to be a radio station, but here i am-- a signature tune.
a thumb pressed to my bone, i know an ink when it holds watery depth.
i know my downfall as i know a fact,
& choose when to put all hit tracks of my life on repeat.
this is not an interview, i have featured on life's track before.
fleshed things that has made loss so significant it was mistaken for grief,
& i never relented in airing it as a gift,
as my father when he says he'll be back before sunrise, but we never get to see him.
as the tap when it vomits it's last lyric,
before running out of breath like a trash poet.
as a candle when it islands into a bath tub before stamping out,
before the accident that claimed the darker part of me.
before i chewed a firework to make me blush.
i didn't die, i was only lucky to have survived the blackout.
until this moment, flesh knew no colours.
everything here attest to the fact that a bracelet pressed to the wrist of a black man is slave trade.
so i bear this mark for justice & our greed, knowing it cost a mother to afford this body.
knowing the earth only rewinds where the universe can skip us as bonus tracks.
nothing holds more scarcity than a breaking news,
but where i come from we make headlines this way, without first rehearsing the scripts.
i guess it all starts with owning up to my faults,
knowing i listen to my idiot box so often i crack the best of my rib.
it almost feels like my neighbor's curse words to know how my darkness returns.
but, what is there to be afraid of?
what if i am part of this darkness & the light in here wouldn't just flicker.?
my mother should have a remedy for this.
i think myself a blind cartographer mapping out plans for the world.
no, this is not jumanji,
not even superpowers can rid us out of this.
most times, i flash through these moments,
to live in another timezone & see my father stranded.
his shirt bruised to the storm, with his head wearing a basin of dust.
he seemed without troubles
& i loved him for all that he carried as wind.
my darkness claims me now,
to resemble my father's ego foregoing boundaries,
like demons foregoing the howls of the people they possess.
i owe no one an explanation as to how i feel right now-- a villain in my own story,
with a badass plot in a world sick as this.
my sister got so sick of me & passed the night lonely.
a century was my death wish, but i guess I'll live past this too.
my father-- a tree breathing in the middle of nowhere,
sometimes, he stings like my shadow,
& most days unsheathes him like a sore with a room for fainting.
he made me who i am today-- a blind cartographer stealing lumens to bake my sight.
the stars blared inside of me is a tincture,
i carry it for the doubt making airwaves in my sister's bones.
A Room with faulty Memories