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.