BOTH HANDS

I have tried to grip and hold sand

I am a philosopher in my own write

for love, spite, wrong and right

An imaginary black hand

louder than a brass band

of inner plights and political fights

oh the critics sing sorrow songs

right their wrongs their battles lifelong

the ego's trip, a cosmic blip

on my scenic route, astute

a taste of forbidden fruit

penmanship, ghetto grassroots

to do away with fainted promises

that urban poverty harnesses

and dwell in the smiles of the deprived

words still thrive, the dead stay alive

I can not grip or hold sand

but I can write with both hands... 

 

 

 

Reviews

[_mal]

Very clever, the second line made me smile