I am a Poet
I am now a Poet. Writing lists of words on the search to find one meaning; these lists of words became sentences for that they became paragraphs.
A pen and scrap of papers for 12 years is my story.
I am the story of my own poetry.
For that I am the narrator, a distinctive voice and a victim of a tragic untold story.
For that they think I am accepted, they call me Qabool, for that is my name.
The name ‘Qabool’ was printed on the cover of my Poetry selection.
The death of my father left me hanging on the side of a cliff writing that intrigues others to read,
but there was no-more to write.
That is it, that is my story. I don’t know if my mother really moved on,
but I never did. Would you?
‘Come closer, I want to share another. If you cross the bridge with me,
Will you? Run Across the red sea leave Africa behind and head towards Asia.
Oh please will you? Or will you leave me, with no answer. ….
Jump over the Palestine walls, turn back to observe the creative absurd graffiti. Please will you? Oh maybe even climb the highest skyscraper, they call it khalifa
Swim across the Atlantic Ocean,
bump into another in London.
Pause…
Bullshit! My century is over,
or century minus one.
Whenever I descend, it does not matter. It crumbled the day I was seven. Like when the bombs hit the mirrors in Afghanistan. It only took one click, bang bang.
She was dead woman walking.
Now that I forgot to mention colour, you have assumed am black. Like the colour of your shiny front door. My words had a meaning but I only knew what they meant, like the day I heard ‘Oh set them free’, has no meaning to me. For now it remains a mystery. Are you puzzled? Thought so!’
