DEAR LUCY,

You came when I gave up on love like an angel from above. When you said you’ll be my wife, laughter filled my life, but who knew that life wields a knife, instead of marriage, now we have a strife. You shouldn’t have called me baby when you knew you wouldn’t be my lady. Our love wasn’t built on a maybe, but instead of a baby, milady, why do we have a raby? It’s not my fault that I’m broke, is it? The country is just a joke, isn’t it? I fight everyday to break the yolk; I don a say-no-to-poverty cloak; I refuse to smoke and instead embrace Fanta and Coke, but the dearth grabs me by the neck anyway, I choke.

I always stay awake at night to write, make good stories, make things right. Attain a great social height, give you a delight. Alas! All I incite are not polite enough to honour my invite, and I fail to be your knight, the future refuses to be bright. What am I supposed to do, where when I bled, I couldn’t pay my due? Where am I supposed to get a cue, where when the day is misty, I can’t stop the dew? How am I going to gather a crew, how, when even you refuse to call me your boo? Monetary hullaballoo; all I ever believed has appeared untrue; salty stew; thorny bamboo; hurricane in Peru; flood in Katmandu.

Okay—okay, I get it. I’m not rich enough, we have to split. It’s not like I’ve not broken someone’s heart before anyway, tit for tat or is it tat for tit? You’re above me, I’m unfit. I irritate you so much you spit. I get it, you have to quit. But know this; I’m not gonna be poor forever. I’ll do anything to achieve my dreams, vigils and prayers, whatever. I’ll tirelessly search for happiness, in books, without, wherever. I’m not gonna give up, ever. I’m not gonna die poor, never. I’ll fight, forever.

I don’t know how to sing, it’s not my thing. Nobody knows me in Bahama, I’m not Obama. But look at me and tell me you disagree, that with my skills, NCE and degree, I do not possess the key. Tell me someday I’ll not spend dollars in Tennessee, on a writing spree, go through Asia and squander their rupee.

I’ll not stop to write even if for now, only few patronize. I won’t be agonized by those who antagonize. Is it ever easy to revolutionize? No, but this global village is mine to colonize. I hear a voice saying: “eBay, wipe the tears in your eyes, greatness isn’t achieved otherwise, my loyal servant, arise.” So I’ll not compromise, my success is near. Surprise!

-Lord eBay (and his random ruminations, 2018)
#eStreetWriters

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s