My confessions of being a fraud



I used to think my writing was ineligible maybe that was its charm.

These days I write more concise cos a guy couldn’t take in more than 300 words of what I wrote.

I detest  this undercover cop writer fraud

Its mind possesses my pen

The daily dips  in a stream in consciousness –  once healed me

 writing helped me to recover

I had a purpose.

Lost the light

Jedi  light sabre, lighthouse – I couldn’t find any abode



A family not cut out of the edible pastry.

My abode is in me. Keys like jailors offend me. Nail varnish always scrapes off.

Feelings so real

unmasked by demons stealing the wealth of my soul for their treacherous pleasure, warped goal.

I gave them 3 years of my life.

Many more years

Many more took pieces of my body.

Skin and bone I was dying then I found another way to cope with the increased bodily matter.

I begged on my knees for death to envelop me – the darkness has always been there.

Life without an existence – one cull of a wasted person – who would miss a heretic debase creature feigning a human being?

Overthink what I type.

I’m boiling with incredulous hate for this new style of writing in hesitate.

Write with a pen and it’s ineligible cos I write so fast .

Mind won’t slow down  until it crashes

I rush everything because my mind won’t compute that 24 hours in a day means I can do many things

Change comes from within

Mother Theresa

Gandhi, I am not.

I need some input.

I Come up from the stream of consciousness frustrated at these wet, insipid words

feel acid raindrops splatter my skin

my tears of fears


I  fear

I pause

Gaze momentarily at the black  Mardi gras voodoo cat


in the hopes, it will inspire me to scratch down words with my own personal twist of improvisational jazz.

that will make my mind install a catapult

blow my own mind app into a positive bubble without the nuclear green slime of the factory of Mr Gold.


Change the record to a song that remembers who I write for.

Remembers why I dance with not to life.

Remember that I have soul & passion & that is better than glory or the poet in succession.

These are my words.

So simple. so sublime so sinewy.

They don’t feel my own.

Drop the insignificant line,



Find that self-confidence

Where’s my inner mad hatter?


A fierce bitch with clothes compelled to scatter

Because no outfit can contain my intense matter.


Writing is meant to help.

Too much hesitancy


I’m winging on a half fried drumstick

A bird is on its back.

Black cat toys with it.

Screams (mine) to leave it alone. With each scream, the bird’s heart beats at 90 bpm.

I can’t keep up with its tiny beat in harmony.

It is a soundtrack to a horror movie.


Fear of those beautiful creatures I want to be.

I copped out and I couldn’t save this fledgeling.


Nature is cruel and man is a  coward

A bad recipe for instilling peace, serenity and reinstalling humanity onto our globe.

Reclaim our true power.

Fail me not

I’m bewitched by my inability to find my inner writer who saved me from death -himself.

I won’t give up -there are steps leading to the top.

I will crawl on my hands and knees to find my feather & my favourite ink well.


Posted on Jul 11, 2020, in POETRY, STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS COLLECTION and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

  1. judeitakali

    Very raw and honest, I really like your writing style, so unique

    Liked by 2 people

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