Voice

I want to write.
Of a generation slipping
Of a people without resilience
Of a get it quick and easy generation.
Of boys talking about
Girls and football
Of girls, talking about
Boys and dresses.

I want write about sons
Leaving home for club houses
About daughters  Leaving mothers
For brothels.

I want to write for the voices not heard,
I want to write with the voice that can only be heard.
I want write for the dashed hopes,
For the lively hope.
For the many injustice
Will my pen bleed on this sweet?

I want to write for mothers,
Whose breast gave suckling
But live not to enjoy that child.
I want to write of fathers, who tried their hardest,
Yet broke their homes with infidelity.

I want to write of a faithful wife
Now HIV positive
Her husband was not discreet enough.

I want to write of dreams
That will only be dreams
Of wishes that will never know reality,
Of fantasies that keeps
A grown man a child.
I want to write of truth that will never be told.

I want to write of a lost generation,
Of churches no longer a place of hope,
Of mosques no longer a place of prayer.
I want to write about this loud silence
About this silent noise.
I want to write about faith without work
And of work without faith.

I want to write for those on the pavements ,
of those in the villa.
I want to write to tell a tale
That will never be told
Of mysteries that can never be broken
Will my pen bleed on these sheets
For issues men will never know.

I want to write of husbands who left
Willing wives for mistresses
Of strange women
Who break homes.
I want to write of wives
Who left good men
For rough rich men
Of women looking for guarantees
Not possibilities.

I want to write of fathers
Who left, of mothers who stayed,
Of children pulling on mama’s dress tail.
I want to write about devotion,
Extreme fidelity.
About indiscretion,
Of sincere infidelity.

I want to write of fame and notoriety,
Of winter days that won’t end,
Of sad seasons that will not change.
I write of love unrequited,
Of blue days
And of green days
Of red days,
And of purple days.

I want to write about moonless nights
And sunless days,
About desired yesterdays
And delayed tomorrows.
I want to write of static todays,
Of ups and downs
But of more downs.

I write about preys and predators,
Of the rapist and the raped,
The victim who would
Never speak of it.
I write of her pain and her silence.
Of her heart and her hurt.

Poem by Daniel Omale