I the poet write.

I, the poet write. A spoken lie, A written line. Blessed are those that seek the truth. Those that reads between the lines; and Digest a spoken lie, only To regurgitate a meaning out of a frozen set of words. The fortunate are those that chews a thought to a chime; and Finds a rhythm to a rhyme. We are accused of insanity…pure madness. We are accused of being socially unjust Because we black-spit on white. We are verbally armed, Psychologically impenetrable; for We know the destruction of the soul is vanity, so We strive for simplicity. We question the birth and death of Jesus Christ so we are said to be heathens and condemned to inferno. We question the death of Bantu Steven Biko so- We are hit with stones and accused of being politically blasphemous. We are the poets, Lo, I write. A spoken lie, A written line. This is the essence that signifies our presence.