AT THE CROSSROADS.

So the adage;

The fall after a pride is true after all.

At the crossroad I stand,

Uncertain of the path to take this time around.

Man for chill.

After all I only live once.

I took to abusing drugs.

Cocaine and heroin,

were my delicacies.

Drug dealing became my daily devotion.

To the ghetto youth,

I was their source of motivation.

As the sands of time blew away,

My fountain of youth faded away.

I became a subject to the test of time.

The option I made,

Became a toxin.

Limb by limb,

The chains of anguish bound me.

Life apparently underwent a change.

At last, a vision.

A mission,

So longed for.

A journey down memory lane.

The flashback, so pitiful.

The scenes, so resentful.

My back at the wall.

My life was seemingly okay.

But finding comfort was like

Looking for a needle in a hay stack.

I got stuck.

My moments splintered,

My life shattered into a million pieces.

The wealth I had amassed couldn’t give me the peace I longed for.

Things had indeed fallen apart.

So I guess you’re right,

When you call me,

A grief child.

My transgressions,

Too many to count.

At the crossroads I stand,

My life at stake,

And my destination uncertain.

Was this fate or I made it so?

I may not be,

Two minus three,

But why do you see me,

As the negative one?

At this moment,

I’m sick and tired of this!

At last, a light unto my path.

My broken life,

Placed together in perfect unity.

I was made whole again

The hole of guilt,

Had been sealed.

Unlike Anapuna and U2,

I’m a salt sent to redeem.

And you too,

You are a born of His Glory.

Just think about it.

I may not be a Pharisee.

But as far as I can see,

He deserves my worship.

For He has made me,

A glorified creature of the creator.

The world had me walk in shame.

But by His grace, I now walk in His name.

The world gave me fame,

Yeah,

A name.

But I now worship a king,

Whose name is above all names.

So call me the Skrybla.

An instrument of love,

Sent from above.

Scribbling words of impact,

To the people,

Under His steeple.

Praying for more Grace.

 

 

Poetry Slam: 
This poem is about: 
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