What is life?
A series of questions, answers never revealed
What’s the point;
The remedy for this confusion I feel?
A conundrum of captivity
This indigenous soul can never be whole
Its origins sold and remain untold.
The lineage of African ancestors
Annihilated or forced to assimilate
A culture diluted then divided
And passed off as second rate.
What’s the point;
The remedy for this intrusion of hate?
A conundrum of creation
This inquisitive soul can never be sure
Were we born from a Bang or placed, perfect and pure,
Knowing what we would become
When she would succumb to forbidden allure?
Holy books filled with holes
Held dear to the heart
A hundred stories retold
A hundred places of start
What’s the point;
The remedy for this illusion of faith?
My conundrum of character
This individual soul is so filled with ignorance
Extinguishing dreams in fear of incompetence
Divided cognizance, the coalescence of consciousness
I hang hope on a shelf as I question myself:
WHO AM I?
WHO DO I WANT TO BE?
AM I GOOD ENOUGH?
…
A series of questions, answers never revealed
What’s the point?
The remedy?
Is it real?
YOU ARE READING
Herban Poetry
PoetryA small but ever-growing collection of original poetry from the mind of a 19 year old pothead. This is home to a large range of thoughts, feelings, and ideas that cloud my head in poetry form.
