He wrote a poem titled it the last poet
he was in the poem era, the last before all went quiet…
And the only sound I could hear was rhyme and flow
so, maybe I sound like this in slow motion,
maybe I found my place in flow motion.
But I don’t think you should call me poet, without caution.
A little about me though no autobiography; I flunked literature class,
needless to add I don’t have my poetic license.
So I read twice as much as I write, when I write,
My scripts are ten times better than when I spit.
Guess my ten fingers can take credit for this.
Don’t call me poet, I don’t think I've graduated.
So what if my thoughts sound like they've marinated
I’m not there yet but I’m steadily moving toward it,
all I need is this ink for what I feel, to word it
I don’t seek for you to understand this, what I want is
for you to feel me as though you’re blind and I’m Braille.
Don’t call me poet, I know nothing about rhythm,
my pace is uneven, maybe I lack lyrical fitness.
The only beat I know and write to, that of my heart.
And that’s another 72 reasons every minute
why me and pen will never part.
Written by Edgar Akama.