David Agyei-Yeboah
Yes, you!

He’s a lovelier figure singed at the lung//Oh now, not so lovely//He thrashes about whenever folks peer//He’s tired of trite expressions in his newfound tongue too and ashamed of his figure across the mirror//He’s been told how to do it by peers and daunting heroes but an infant voice within is screaming//Go the other way. Take the path less travelled//He’s trying to claw himself from disapproval and can’t seem to understand why he seems so wedged in darkened flesh//This version of him wears brazen thorn that knifes at windpipe//The rushing winds of timidity sit tight in his belly, move all the way up to his throat and spill over onto a crumpled tongue that wails from the constant lampoon ringing fiercely in his head//This version of him has an umbrella of a mouth that can never impale the wind//This version of him reaches to the heavens for a cup of sanity//This version of him crawls out of muddy waters only to slip in again//Oh to see froggy eyes leaping into the sandstorm, O to touch skin and feel it parched and sore//He’s in his teens, eyeballing his figure again, rivaling it to the sin of perfection planted firmly in the picture that begins to roar, a Godly thunder//And how, wretchedly, he would never boom like this creature, never make mouths water, never claim bodies he desperately longed to hold, feel, love//You think you’ll never know stillness or watch it rustle past your groin but hush, child//Awaken to your muse and never be stifled by otherworldly opinions and conjectures//Bleed your trauma, bleed your loss, bleed your inquisitions//Your creativity and essence must array water and body, land and soul, deep, lapping ever gently, onto hollow creek//Pour it all, the angst and inner fire, streamed from the most passionate region of you, the lake of your heart//Yes you, young poet!