Poem: The Poetic Alley Fiend

Written by Sam Moyo

http://sam-moyo.blogspot.com/

Corner stories,

Alley fiends romancing pills to acid,
Glue addicts, fume magic to dull what reality is,
Infant to mother, pest controlled like demons by pastor,

I red curtain my iris to hide my souls essence,
Take a dose of creative magic that’s a creator’s practice,
Dream of food like powder to addict,
Labeled dirt so I fight dogs for bones,

These streets are my parents.

Health bears no risk as its life we hustle to live,
Poet,
Life’s curse to search breaking means,
From slums unknown my experiences can change lives like a coin,
I satisfy hunger by watching you eat,
Get beat to screams while you  get entertained,
Life’s balance appears mean though abundant in talents like ancient coin to Judas‘ madness


I play legit cards only to attract sharks

Like floating used menstrual pads,
Can you relate that?
Amidst the luxury of poverty,

Nairoberry becomes movement against norms of society,
Relate tear drops to Christ’s metaphors,
They preach love in buildings of god,
Me the outcast remains out

Cast like sin from buildings that claim god,
Misery is familiar, it is my comfort
Street talk taught to those who these streets walk,
Accused to take abuse, that’s Use like meaning to the used to,

So,
We stay real and smile from will,
Remain free to die when God wills,
Accept these as blessings just to balance what life is,

You live, car strapped to plane tickets,
My hero : for you keep me dreaming and that’s all I live for,
Untold by these streets, these common truths like disease in our midst,

Heal me, please.
Ignore my efforts to better me,
Feed our mothers,
Even if it is the crumbs you toss out your car window

Life though kind I exist, my curse is blessing to most,
After all, Don’t I keep its balance so you live life from this?

These streets are my parents

 

These mongrels my housemates in this our fathers house that accommodates nations,
You think me cursed while I see me blessed,

Dirty from your blessed perspectives, thief, dishonest, to put poverty on as a cloak I choose to sample,

Yet I,

I remain a poet,
Life’s mystery,
Inspiration to defy odds for the resourced,

I remain living despite,

Smiling,  inspired, courageous though weak in might,

I remain spirit,
for I,

I remain,

Until this day goes and today comes again.

Street grown, poet, survivor.
From Dust I Came.

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Author: Faith Oneya

Lover of the written and spoken word.

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