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Date Written: November 4, 2017

Another year older I grow

sitting pensive, reminiscent, for

in a state of absolute perplexity

my mind drowning with OCD

tendencies hyped up due to

my epic failures, I recount.


Why was I born?

The thorns placed as a

crown upon my head bleeds

 as the swaddling  wrapped in

dirty rags, should have been

eaten by rabid dogs lest

my wailing rent the night alight

having been picked up in a fright.


Another story of my birth is bred

as a subterfuge,  between the

oil cans under the bed I slide

as she held onto the bed sideboards

with no help as the household

went out to celebrate Guy Fawkes

hurriedly wrapped in the afterbirth,

pronounced dead, I was to be

buried behind the shed.


Why was I born?

On his palm I stood proud

Samson the Giant, as he

performs for the crowd

having waged he can hoist

a wraith- like creature, malfed

is how ‘Jessica’ the name

I bore was given, for King Kong

viewed in the 1970s had the exact

 same scene portrayed.


I know not why I was born,

not to be a scorn I definitely know

but for the Horn of Africa to

be forever changed, is why!

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