Born neath five stars, my pen hails from Albion,
imported, like my mother’s tongue, which she
does not speak. Rowling and Eddings I see
my masters, Shakespeare a distant god on
parchment. Alas, my name is not my own
like those men, borrowed with my face as fee,
and my ink is their blood, swelling in me,
lending echoes to shape an oblivion.
But know this: I care not what history speaks!
The hourglass stirs sandstorms within this chest cage.
And Walcott’s plight offers pride and possibility.
Behold: my word shall transcend the form it seeks!
My pen will become the blade to sever this rage.
A pen I will forge in flame. A pen that will be ‘me’.