PIECES OF ME
I look up to the sky for clarity,
But the salty tears on my face
Draw the conclusion of my pain.
Judge not my bloodthirsty lips,
I am inaugurated with poverty.
Do you know what I am feeling?
Do you know what I am eating daily?
Oh, heartless and barren soils,
Judge not my empty body,
I am dancing with death.
The trumpet is tired of my tears.
The piano has lost its taste.
If the drummer napped on his drum,
Never suggest that he is tired.
The vocalist was arrested on the podium.
My blood is no longer crying.
The oxygen is angrily sinking.
If I sleep and awaken no more,
Celebrate not my broken pieces;
Even the coffin knows my bitterness.
©Gabriel S. Weah
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