He’s seen with a tattoo around his face
from the ink of hardship, pain and lost.
They judge him by saying he’s lost the race
Life broke him down and his little trust.

God is more concerned in a shoe than its lace
so the church is fake, untrue and not a must.
Suffering and Hell care for his grace.
He’s a broken piece who has lost his gust.

Ruddapoet [TRCP]


He learned to draw inward avoiding his peers.
The more he gets beaten, broken and spurned.
Causing his own grief by incurring their jeers
He feels as if his very soul has been burned.

A broken man, tender infant who was long a prisoner of font fears,
But the ancient art of impalement was a thing he had learned.
Time long it has been where comely words are whispered through the thick curtains of his ears,
Such were the bitter thoughts to which away he turned.



Potter, mould me a fine black pot;

Sponge it with spring, void of conflict upon heart’s pan.

Coat it with grounded rose and leave it tender like a tot,

Hit it with summer till it becomes richly brown like the Oak’s tan.


After which, fill it with debris and nails of misfortune twisted like an evil man’s plot;

Cover the top with a garment of innocence to disguise the plan.

I will give you one thousand piece of gold for the pot.

Finally, you will beautifully engrave on face of the pot ‘a broken man’.

Dprime Rasheed


alone in the dark he sits,
into the mist evaporates his cold breath
a myriad attempt to puzzle where his heart fits,
a cross line between life-or-death.

in the dark struggles of life he lits
but fruitless is his effort like cursed from birth.
Trying to gather his broken pieces as he silently knits
endlessly seeks he heaven on earth.



I have no hands to hold back time
My arms you cut off with a cutlass I used to make a shield
I have no eyes to see the river and the water tastes like lime
My legs you broke away so show me how to leave the battle field

I do not pray for the sun to shine
Its rays visited the old lady down the road but she wasn’t healed
A broken man I’ve become overtime
I wish I lived in a talipot palm where my heart would have been sealed.



An out burst of silence set in his setting
Nothing matters no more, no one but the one on sight
“He’s hit! He’s hit!!” he screams as in melancholy besetting
He watches him as he screens to deem pitch the last light


This man was his blood for certain
Lost to the cold arms of their enemy’s bullet, his spirit, crushed to slight
His lamentation borne into lie mentation that to God, his last dept is offsetting
No need for byes for their entwined souls to the skies, takes flight.


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