Animation of Literature

My poems lay comfortable in my mental womb...
Stored deep in my heart-chives.
Away from sunlight, as they are trapped in my rib cage.
Only let to lay silent, as the pen forges them on a page.
They speak, but they're unheard...
With an ugly handwriting, they shout through their sign language.
Being like an almost fully mature foetus,
Kicking with half done limbs to make their presence felt by my mind.
Then cancerously they multiply,
Now I'm due to give birth to an army of syllables
The untamed force of my poetic nature compels me to animate them.
As they keep toiling violently,
My ventricles burst... And I am no longer a ventriloquist.
My poems now have a life of their own.
Free, in the airwaves they roam

Sunday,
25th August...
I rehearsed till my voice tore through Shakespearean sonnets...
Rebelliously demonstrating that my poems are always in free verse.
United stanzas came to the summit of my cranium.
Gathered to demonstrate their newly attained freedom.
My ink came to life like Lazarus,
And start doing life like gestures that seemed to me like moving hieroglyphics
That were shape shifting, so as to ambiguously abstract their meaning.
They stood up and left my pages empty like lonely prison cells...
I vortexed towards my destiny
Hoping these voices would convex and form an aligned unity.
While I was still confused,
Carried by my words,
Looking like a powerless Goliath, picked up by midget syllables,
That were marching... Forward and on, and on... In a rhythm similar to obese rain drops stomping corrugated rooftops
And then Later when they put me down,
I felt atomically small, cause my rhyme book was suddenly monumental
So they made me carry it on my back like the cross of Calvary...
A mob of disbelieving figures of speech,
Wanting me to prove to them my loyalty.
Lines that used to be as gentle as ribbons, have now turned hazardous,
Giving my timid skin paper cuts...
Then in the final moments... I was nailed to my rhyme book, with ballpoint pens
My head under the gallows...
Remaining unforgiven by my metaphors...
Similes no longer smiling...
A dark cloud of black ink instantly started raining...
Stanzas, Scrolls, pens, quills, black books, poem titles... Microphones, library shelves, alliteration, metaphors, similes, irony, oxymorons, onomatopoeia, puns, enjambment, subjects, predicates, articles, vowels, consonants, assonance,
Full stops, commas putting me in a comma, capitals, colons, ellipses, exclamations, question marks,dashing hyphens, bold but broken brackets, rhyme schemes, even numbers... Ready to commit alphabetical slaughter, handwritings and fonts turned against me...
All shouting,
THERE SHALL BE NO APOLOGY FOR NOT RECITING POETRY!!!
THERE SHALL BE NO APOLOGY FOR NOT RECITING POETRY!!!
Forced to speak what angels in heaven have been waiting for...
The echoes, of my outspoken poetry
Piercing through my cycophagus like sun rays beaming through clouds...
To be let out
And on the last moment of a blank and expressionless clock
I spoke... I confessed
In the middle of a street cipher...
The gallows let to be taken by gravity
Straight through my head
Castrated...
The beast of stage fright slayn
Sacrificially to give birth and way, to the Prophetic word...
Of Stainless Ink.
That when heard its induces a Heart Quake...
The voice of a thousand arch angels speaking simultaneously
Leaving your ear drums to eternally vibrate
The incarnation of a Last Scribe
That writes live literature on stone just to bring you Rock Art