Losers


The highs of overdosing
Coupled with the lows of roller coasting
made poor me bipolar mostly

Tides of your ocean
decides the motion of my emotion

Your mind cast in stone that your heart was born to roam
You did me like the Romans do, your heart was gone to Rome

Tides of your ocean
decides the motion of my emotion

You knew what you had
But didn’t know what you wanted

You needed what you had
But that wasn’t what you wanted

You don’t know what you’re missing till you have it
You don’t know what you have till it’s missing.

–  āb.

multi colour 

Black woman, pink lips, green on her mind, face yellowed by bleach, eyes red from the pain of blues that make her comfortable with being viewed a white lady with brown skin
She prays those who can’t think ‘straight’ don’t mistake her for a “LGBT” flag.
She’s green to the blues of longing for a nebulous relief from her stifled state of mind that make “white matter” turn grey
The lenses through which she sees the world is monochromatic, to her life is black or white and 50 shades of grey.
She was purple eyed from being repeatedly knocked down but not out by life’s reality, realities that make blood go from red to indigo 

 The lenses through which she sees the world make her short sighted so she squints to find the ‘white’ light at the end of a judgmental tunnel

While really, the light at the end of this tunnel is a giant disco bulb changing colour with every passing sec, she’s colour blind.

She’s a basket of fruits , 

going ‘bananas’ for an ‘apple’ cellular that’s coloured ‘Orange’ but ‘peach’ is really the apple of her eye
Black woman with self acquired white skin, temper violent with veins that look violet.
She might lack what’s right          

but only if life’s black or white
She’s more than just the pink between her naked thighs 

Beautiful in places you can’t see with naked eyes

Black woman who’s got the blues, 

call that blue-black.
 – ā.brantipā 

Cover art credit : more-sky.com & āb.rantipā 

RēLāTīVīTy 

Ever seen a shooting star that was still

Ever felt sick and yet not ill ?

Ever been home but felt homeless 

Ever had faith,  but felt hopeless ?

Ever had company, but was alone 

Ever had money but was a loan ?

Ever had parents but no guidance 

Ever had thoughts but no ideas ?

Ever been full yet not satisfied 

Ever had reasons but not justified?

Ever felt dead but been alive 

Ever hardly started the journey but already arrived ? 
  –  āb.rantipā

-22

 

  

By all means let’s kill children
 if it means we get our definition of freedom and peace 

 ‘Men’ who claim to go to war to preserve the peace

‘Philosophers’ who believe imperfect peace is no peace 

‘Geniuses’ building bombs to strip away an imperfect peace 

It is thanks to ‘you’ I bid the 22, rest in perfect peace.
‘They’ killed those kids,

 Innocent souls whose spirits now rise from those pits 

Burnt down but whose ashes rise as tears that flood those lids 

not only those the joy of birth sorrow now rids

 As they killed those kids
Somalia, Liberia, Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq and on and on and now Manchester 

 They killed those kids 

 On this slippery road of treachery, a sound mind tries to hold on as it skids

To make a bomb for kids

Must surely be one even your god forbids 
For a city that made the Busby babes

Parents deprived of their babes

An abrupt end to their days

Saffie Rose Roussos, Olivia Campbell Georgina Callander … tribute by their names

A bloodcurdling act that will make even the dearly departed ones of the Munich disaster wince in their graves 
 Men killing children in the name of freedom and justice,

 Are you giving those children any freedom and justice ? 
I’m not here to start a bid

On who started it and what who did 

True cowardice is to kill a kid

When “wanting to live a full life” is all she did.
Religion does not kill people, 

people kill people.

āb.rantipā – 22.

Ghost writer 

   

            

Aside that I didn’t deliver world peace,         cure cancer or correct global warming,

Kro d))su a y3n tina faako nnye 3nimguasi 

                      So when I die,                                            Let it not be incredulous.
Have one thousand virgin priests and priestesses chant canonical incantations of holy writ,

  Wrap me up in the pure of cheap plain cloth soaked in the tears of ten thousand righteous men and throw me six feet deep into heaven.

For I have fallen for death’s allure, a fall from.                                                                                     which I’ll rise no more.

                         When I die,
                       You might narc; 
” oh but I didn’t have enough of him and now his gone”

Well, too bad but 
 if you hadn’t spent so much time staring at your phone when we were together ,                                   If you weren’t so busy getting your money, thinking to yourself I’ll be around when you’re done,

then perhaps,  you would have had enough of me.
Try not to come up with some profoundly clichè heartbreak message as your status to show the gaping depth your loss.
          I won’t be there to appreciate this.
Do not put any picture of me up on social media announcing my death as though you cared even a little more than the undertaker, (to whom I’ll probably be just another Tuesday at work)
That’s just the most foolhardy kind of attention seeking

        But if you did , I wouldn’t blame you.
                          You’re welcome,

                      What are friends for.
Try not to make my funeral about you and how successful you have become than anyone else that might show up
Try not to make my funeral about others and how far behind in life you are from them,
    I wouldn’t be there to join your pity party 
Do not go buy yourself a new dress for my funeral,

              Give that money to the needy.
Do not spend time thinking of some new hair-do for my funeral, 

        spend that time helping a street

                       child learn to read.
Do not go polishing up your nails, browse and such,

                 Save that for your wedding.
Do not waste effort picking and matching your best dress with the perfect shoe-purse combo,
                I wouldn’t see how fly you look,

          So save it for “Accra Fashion Week”.
            I would have you come butt-naked,

                   but,  nudity is played out.
Do not concern yourself with where I’m going, 

as that is as pointless as searching for an invisible

               needle in a colourless hay stuck.
Do not wear make-up, perfume or accessorize,

                        forget about them

like all the other times you forgot to call me back cause you had better things to do.
                    Bring no phone or camera,

 aside those being an unwelcome distraction to an otherwise solemn ceremony,

   I always did find quite hard to shoulder funeral photos on social media

      folks posed akin glorious statues of heroic martyrs,

  wearing smiles of oblivion as though there was a thing such as “smile of sorrow “.
There shall be no food or drink (alcoholic, semi-alcoholic or otherwise ) at my funeral,
 No wait !, don’t panic,
 This is only to save you the ‘trip’ of having to criticize “funeral food”
  Let’s face it, 

you’re no renaissance culinary connoisseur anyway
    no donations will be collected at my funeral , 

  I’m sure you have better things to do with your money, 
         but if you don’t, here’s a great idea;

                  “donate it to charity”.
There will be no reading of some written fuss about my simple and even insignificant life 

                               no tribute,
               only one letter, written by me, 

                         my tribute to you,
                             This letter.
                   Wait ! , Who am I kidding ?

                a funeral is not for the dead.
                            –  ābrantipā.

            

Poem :

When I die,

When I’ve become no good for worth except vinish into star dust 

From where I once came 

 It will be no shame

  When no ocean of tears can muffle your pain.

When I’m gone, 

When the veil between the actual and perception is torn 

revealing my demons as my maker’s pawn

 As I’m freed from this world to move on,

 Let it be no celebration of tragedy.
Let me go,

Body not mind or soul 

 Carry me onto the infinity that unforgettable memory is 

 Carry me home to the dirt that once was beautiful.
Painting credit: blog.theprose

Additional artwork: Kwame Abrantipah

All rights reserved.

An Ode to Akotowaa

Very Miss Akotowaa,

I didn’t even know this would become an ode to you and your great body of work cause ur only began as a Facebook comment to your outstanding piece;  ” Retrograde and the Nightmare”

By the way solitaire is still my favourite spoken word poetry EP. 
Akotowaa,

 I most definitely and completely identify with this very profoundly presentation as far as introspection go.

In the unmistakable words of Marshal Bruce Mathers III (Eminem) ;

” sometimes I feel like all I ever do is find a different way to word the same old songs ….” – guts over fear
Its almost telling that a statement of such self-questioning finds itself in a song titled “Guts Over Fear”
I view this piece (your piece, very Miss Akotowaa) as an Ode to guts over the fear  (the phrase proper not the song) of becoming obsolete or  artistically repetitive . That fear that come with the panic of failure in an artist’s bid to top their own masterpieces. 
Most of all I am deeply drawn to this peice in a way that is almost spiritual for it’s truth, depth in thought and composition. ( I really wonder what the thought process was like while writing this)
I’m immensely sensitized and inspired by it 

There is a piece of myself in a piece of your piece.


Your excellence remain unscathed.

Thank you and keep writing,  rap it if you must, sing if it should,  always tell it how you do, you of a beautiful mind

 (Very Miss Akotowaa).

abrantipah – an ardent fan and mentee

Unspoken Word.

Wonder why I write my thought rather than speak it

Wonder why I hate truth rather than seek it

Wonder why we know bout facts only when they leak it

Wonder why we dont choose the real deal over the weak **it
Wonder why pastor doesn’t practice things, but preach it

Wonder why we’ve got dreams but can’t reach it

Is it cause we’ve been waiting on “the how” till they teach it ?
Well then,

This poem is not for those who say reality is behind a divine veil and only they can peep it

 This poem is not for those who made us a promise and couldn’t keep it

This poem is not for those who care more about “facebook likes” than brushing their teeth twice

This poem is not for those who know the value of nothing but everything’s price

This poem is not for those who know more about the angel obinim than they know about christ
This poem is not for ‘likes’ or ‘shares’, or a hype to compare , the veracity of life being unfair 

This poem is not for a world that makes you a dress without your measurements and calls you fat if you don’t fit in it

This poem is not for those who claim they have a cure for a runny nose which side effect is coughing

This poem is not for those who make a cure more expensive than a coffin 
This poem is not for the Paradox of the label “leader of the free world” built by slaves
This poem is not a poem,

 This poem is a #realist unimpressed by social media activism and “pray for us” hashtags, 

Knowing that ; “True Activism” is a change of each of our own mind set, not of others.

  

   abrantipah.
Original portrait credit – Pinimg.com

Artwork credit – Kwame Abrantipah.

All rights reserved.