THE STITCH

 Why do they murder me alive?

Why uninstall my systems software

Why make figs from my born fruitful berries

They rip out a part of me and yet expect me to be complete

They invade the headquarters of my veins and ask me not to bleed

They watch me chase my breathe as they ignore my gasp for air

And it seems my screams and struggles are cheers to this sacrifice

So I ask the question?

What becomes of a fruit when its juice gets sapped out?

With debris made to embrace the feet of passersby on streets it once saw as ground

And what’s left of me when I am left to feel nothing but nothing

Since when did my emasculation become tradition?

Why castrate me in disguise

And stitch me thinking the venom has been removed

When the cure itself just got deactivated

Why deprive my right to feeling

 And banish me to wallow in rigidness

Why make me iroko

When I was born cedar

And who said it was virus anyway

If they was any

You just transformed me into cancer

Slowly dying without notice

With life walking past the stairs of opportunities

And I starring wishing to catch up

But just too paralyzed to chase it