Mad Poet - Kofi Gyamfi Anane-Kyeremeh

He is just a scribbler,
Like a painter painting,
Like a potter with clay,
Messed up with the guts of a soldier.
He soaks reason like a sponge
And urinates it out, like a broken fountain.

He is just a scribbler,
A man with a heart of gold,
Like a goldsmith on an anvil
Striking hot gold with his desires
To make jewelry he will never wear,
Like a man upon the waters,
Scavenging for scales, fins and gills
Rocking gently upon the turbid liquid.

He is just a scribbler,
Like a professor of knowledge,
Knowing and not knowing what not to know.
Like hungry rebels wanting to clench power
Which they cannot manage if they get it.
Like the musician who with a broken guitar
Sings dolefully to himself.

He is just a scribbler,
Scribbling the dirty words of his mind,
Confused but alert and ready.
He tells no tale a-sweet or sour.
He is sober but to the breaking point.
Like a crashing airplane, a somersaulting car,
A tumbling barrel, a shattering frame,
Like the moment of truth.

He is just a scribbler,
Writing with his blood, diluted with tears and spit.
Bloodshot pupils, his myopia shielding his shame.
His fingers quake at each letter, each word.
Like a violent volcano,
A bubbling ditch of tar,
like salty sweat.

He is just a scribbler,
Wishing he had died at birth,
Wishing he had never seen this damsel in linen.
He bleeds shame and neglect.
He reeks of years of failure.
For his heart is still single, beating double
It kills him more than gives him life.
Alas! He is mad!

He is just a scribbler,
With no quill, no inkwell, no parchment,
Not even a shred of cloth to hold on to.
He feels mocked. He is mocked.
But he does not wail, no he does not.
Like dust in the eyes, like salt in a bad tooth
He looks to the day when he will leave the scene.

He is just a scribbler,
Forsaken, forbidden, forgotten
Like a bad war, or great natural disaster.
His words are suicidal—no—genocidal
Yet he is no man that can take another life,
Like prancing fetish priests, drunk on the liquor of
Spiritualism and herbs more bitter than bile.

He is just a scribbler.
He tells that same tale told not long ago,
By travelers, doctors, paupers, engineers.
He tells the same tale of life, shrouded and hidden.
His heaving chest would soon stop
And when it finally does,
He won't feel anything anymore
He will be dead;
Killed by love.
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