By Adams Dauda
My heart is a cavernous basket.
It can only hold so much malice.
On my humble wit your eye is set.
If everything ends then so will my service.
Your hefty privileged toes press upon mine,
Malice ends but its pains do linger.
My grievous moans and screams are a sign.
Not of the giving of a glum drudger,
Nor of the breaking of the overdone.
But of the kindhearted which i am one.
Seeing to never reprise, and to forgo,
When i traipse on a variant toe.
So it is my most blatant sorrow,
To be dealt that makes my demons show.
As the breaking of day follows the enshrouded night,
Yield and let out my hollows i might.
Cos this untended open wound grows,
From your incessant troddng on my bleeding toes.