It got me doing some intense research, the need to have my words heard. Not only heard but for them to inspire if not a revolution or rebellion then to just be comfort to those in the dark. Book after book I was told poetry does not go very far, its just something personal, not a money making industry hence very little investment opportunities. So no money means I will not be heard,next question, “Where are you?………Africa…….honestly we cannot help.”
So for a few days I kicked every pebble on every pathway I took, angry at the world because it did not have the time and money for what I had to say, its a sickening feeling you know, to feel as if no one’s listening. Feels like you are screaming in a bubble floating far off into space where no one is. You either get tired or your voice runs out, yes even your body and mind can give up on you, no words, as if to say they have caught on to what your heart and spirit have not.
And then I go back to my normal routine and try to forget childhood dreams of life before twenty, but it is still my waking thought and the reason I am blind to any other achievements, because the child in me will not be forgotten. So that is the endless cycle I find myself in, a battle of the war, and whatever happens may I always find my way to my words and courage to stand for them. And this is my message in a bottle, to the ocean of bottles. That the right person finds this, but then again they say I should make my own place in this world, I cannot be constrained to just throwing message bottles now can I? My mother works too damn hard for me not to be great, why does the path seem forever foggy though. Such that
when I do find time to dwell upon this cursed world we all seem to badly want to belong to, I find myself looking towards the heavens for enlightenment, for what else is there to do when you run out of the yellow brick road to follow.