It’s all started when I…
When I began hearing some tiny-little-precarious voices
At first it seemed harmless
As a poet I thought it was an inspiration
As a pastor I thought it was a message to be preached on a Sunday morning
As a motivational speaker “Ohh they’ll die to hear this”
Only if I had known
If I knew, I would have said a hi when the sun was on his way downhill
I would have told the holy man of God
The voice warned that I acted fast
“Obey now as tomorrow might be too late” came the tiny-precarious voice
The voice is fresh, tiny, quaky, precarious and gradually tormenting
Should I tell someone my bad pasts or I die with torments
Regrets and gnashing with pain?
This isn’t how voices from the holy God comes
“It usually comes with benignity, soothing, it heals” I remember how the holy men describes voices from God
But here am I struggling in a voice of disphoria
A voice of torment, the one meant only for a dead man or betterstill potential dead men
Now is my eyes opened as the voice will be preached on my dying bed,
It will be read as an eulogy when on my grave.
But… It all started when I began hearing tiny-little-precarious-voice
At first it was harmless but I never cared
Now I am reaping a basketful of my past deeds.
If only I am to re-li(e)ve