PROSTIFESSIONAL | Chronicles by Godwin Essang | Poetry | PROSTIFESSIONAL SERIES

Evergreen memories of my past keep playing,
A happy teen, with gifts and gifts spraying,
First born with three 'blings around me all playing,
Gifts and aids evokes relation's praise spraying.

The sour news flashed on TV so real,
Fatal accident at Powers Bank for real?
In a blink my parents died and our house was writ and sealead,
Homeless and helpless orphans, my page of sorrow was surreal.

A blast so cruel, transposing our golden dreams,
Tears furrowed concerto, raised alarms in thunderous screams,
Thoughts of where to live, what to eat keenly streams,
Desserted by all, except sorrow's dreadful screams.

We resolved to beg, to tune this wailing song,
The stares on my boobs doubled the heat of the scorching sun,
Come hither,I went thither til I learned sorrow's new song,
Raped and paid; oh death why not spare us this song?

Deprived of dignity, robbed of my pride, who should I question?
Homeless and helpless, tales of sorrow, who should I question?
Fictions playing reality with my senses, oh who should I question?
Not alone to struggle, hustling for four, please who should I question?

Happy sadness flows through my veins, I'll accept and face the pertinence,
Then bid another, another, another till I killed my insolence,
My blood ripples and my bleeding conscience waits in silence,
Saddled to nurse my blings, with my witless intelligence.

Dancing to the mystic rhythms of lusty men's money,
A devotee to "PROSTIFESSIONALISM", earning real money,
Paying all our bills,cook JOY sweeter than honey,
Spontaneity of my whore-VENTURES, pays whooping sums of money.

Countless tributaries endorse my honey tunnel,
Assets acquired, but my frost heart heave to hell's tunnel,
Tons of ice-storm tears flow through my eyes as though funnel,
I wish my parents were alive, I wouldn't have traced this dark tunnel.

Graduating with honour break the veil of dark certitude,
I paced and traced this scary path in solemn solitude,
Drums of penitence telegraphing, trying to repair my broken attitude,
Reborn a retired Prostifessional, with heaps of gratitude.

Before you judge me; Holy holy,saint of saints, Sinless being.
Where were you when my life was ruined? Oh! Sinless being,
Where were you when I was raped,
Oh! Sinless being,
Where were you when my dreams was trash dumped? Oh! Sinless being!

Now, she blames the society?

For her excesses?
I'm confused, who made her what she is?

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