Monday, November 9, 2009

creative

Gino is the descendant of kings and when I write my ancestors get hype in their graves.

Let me sign my name in heavens to declare my creative independence.

My truth creates a stink in this perfect rosy world that we have been forced to believe in which we live.

 

I have found ways, words, mine, others borrowed and dreamt up.

Earth shocking, brain blocking, cock blocking. I have not enough ink in my pen.

I am grateful for my gift of words I have robbed from the world.

I am a giant, surrounded by ants who don’t know what I am talking about.

 

The world’s liberated women are not liberated at all.

We talk about it too much; we all have the same speech.

(Ladies show your faces coz I’ve already ripped off my mask!)

A woman’s hands are not to serve man. And make best.

They are to look graceful, be helpful, turn the world and carry the future.

(Pussy Niggas lift weights, I’m a woman I lift tons!)

 

Devotion, Sentimental, Conscious inquiry. These words.

Appreciation of this sweet pleasure has been the anchor of my humanity.

Conformed.

 

Gino Obuseng

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