You see, this poetic world
Is like the wild, wild west,
Where bards cradle pens like guns
and write with reckless abandon,
Where you're seldom free from
sniffing on tears, because pains
are hidden within words and between
Lines and pages of their ballads.
This poetic world is like war.
Bards, with their pens
fight the ills of a nation,
try to save hares from lions
at their own risk and peril.
While you're in deep slumber
hearing your own loud snore,
you have visions of the pen moving,
but not the struggling man holding the pen.
This poetic world,
Is like the bulb in your room,
Keeping the darkness at bay
Until the night gives way to the morning.
Yet no one sees the man who controls the pen
to turn blank pages into designs
which feeds human intuition with words
that are enough to keep their feet firm.
This poetic world is not fair.
There's the man who thirst
to see a lot of people being fed,
but no weight added to his pocket.
©Akinwole John Akintayo
©Alabi Muheez Ajibola
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