THE BLEEDING PEN.

Judgement count when the moon shines with no apology, when the chicken nuggets the morning inspiration with a single sound.

My Pen glide across the empty lines, the heart flows out the feelings of ponderous turning the hope of men in asunder. The magic behind a broken pond with an empty frame is a clueless effort ascending.

My pen is bleeding the anguish of men, the sorrows of the gentle, the cry of the mean, the actions of the victim and the story of the faded attitude calling in the midst of the braves.

Yes it began with a chant of truth, morals and sincerity but time flies when only the good keeps pursuing and the bad keeps reign in a territory of vanquish.

ONCE UPON A TIME IN JENTA

Once upon a time when the good heart supersedes the mere thinkers, when the chicken has no option than to sing a good morning Coros.

Once upon a time when the just are filled with Merriment at their coast, when the OC's shop enjoys the reign of time positioning the hosts as marketeer.

Once upon a time when the black boys being described as the scamps, when niggas of old distance their trousers from their waist exposing their dirty boxers and they called it swag. 

Once upon a time when the road side tomatoes sellers better still the hair dressers move to advance the ministry of gossip.

Once upon a time when an ugly daughter birthed by a beautiful mother, inspiring strings of solos by an evil heart and the reign of expendables among the visionaries. 

Once upon a time when men are Fraternizing just to keep the Seventh day Holy. When St Luke's primary remain the resolute to the poor. 

Time flies as who gets what, when and how.

THE BLACK ERR

The optimum is cruel by the nooks of the dark world blinded by sorrows of men subject to arrows that stroked the heart of mercy.

It started with a full cake known as Africa later broken on the feast of Barlin which gave birth to infliction and exploitation.

Yes it's a black day but endowed with many gifts and good reasons to smile, it's a black day but engulfed with memories of sanctity.

Turning back the hands of time to clear off the mess is false but making the rest of the time count is real,
The magic lantern has fade away showcasing the unpleasant.

Africa my root, Africa my DNA, the anguish and the punch line of Under-development they say but who cares?