By Abrahim Harb
I feel my Brain,
itching to be set free.
I still have the pain,
I no longer feel like an ackee,
no more, I be fain
no longer a donee.
It is so much to refrain.
no more, do I have pain.
as I end this quatrain
* * * * * * *
My Brain,
It itches.
Why must it itch?
I must decree,
my Brain,
its decaying.
It is almost gone,
as I lay
and cry.
My Brain,
It itches
why must it itch?
I shout,
I yell,
its dead.
I am numb.
I am eternally,
dead.
* * * * * * * *
as I hit thy Brain.
eternally dead?
Have I no Brain,
from this pain
as I tread?
and my dirty bed?
* * * * * * * *
beyond my Brain?
Must I explain,
to thee in distain?
I guess no longer can I refrain,
from this I maintain?
Must I not be overlain,
from this, I ascertain?
Shall you entertain,
as constrain?
Me and my Brain.