I gape these out of courage,
Pregnant with volcanic rage,
Whose fangs are sharp like a rake,
Taunted like a string that may break.
I am tired of your sounding skull

I am not the principal of this institute,
That perhaps you would spring,
To mutter words at me,
As though I increased tuition on you alone.
I am just a poet
Who is tired of your baby brain.

I am not Amos Tutuola-William Shakespeare-
Not Wole Soyinka or Charles Dickens-
I am not William Wordsworth-not Bandura.
My dear ……I am not Jonathan Kariara-
Not Okot’p Bitek or Jonathan Swift-
So that your young brain should stage
To make invaluable-insensitive and useless
Criticism……only to afford your smile
As you keep undressing your stupidity
In front of seeming friends,
On an open ground like a knowledge defaulter.
I am just a poet,
Who is tired of your mental virginity.

I am not beautiful…..not handsome,
Not anything meaningful to you, not enviable,
Not golden as you are,
I am not worth your type or expectations,
I am not all you would wish to call me.
I am just a poet,
Who is tired of grazing on your mental nakedness

I am not only stupid as you take,
This is another bit of me.
I am also foolish-empty-minded-hopeless,
Never compared to a fool.
Keep tickling me,
And I will keep you watching my madness,
I am glad being a simple subject,
For a premature instructor,
To make your listeners like your intelligence.
I am just a poet,
Who is tired of your inability to mature

I am not a disinfectant of your,
Jealous-anger-strive-rivalry
I am I am not your confidant,
To whom you must bring your stale gossip,
And indolence from a mind of commitment,
To personal interest but only poking your dirty nose
In linen not meant for you,
After swinging your abdomen…..that is a bit better,
You do these after waggling your sewerage,
And foolishly mindless of shame-listening walls,
And the walking wind,
And perhaps the sun and the moon
Whose eye is ever seeing your nakedness.
I deserve not but your footing.
For I am just a poet,
Who is tired of your mental virginity