Orator

She is being told to speak singly Rush not those words And take deep breaths But the reality, by God, is as depressing as it is saddening. Because over this, She almost has no control Many of these battles he loses Some he wins Draining his lungs of air in the process But whatever you do Never look away when he speaks During that vocal battle A moment that characterised by closed eyes May be accentuated by gaped mouths, clenched fists And probably downward glances and tramped feet He is aware But do not look away. ...

That young man possesses a mind perfectly engineered for humour He guards a brain functionally destined for satire But his is the case where all is literally lost in transmission They call him humourless He is being termed a melancholic introvert Because he onlooks when his friends chatter And rehearses when his friends laugh He eventually drops a line or two to maintain his relevance He is blamed for speaking too fast The hot-yam-in-mouth analogy He feigns a smile and whisks it off But you lot know not What it feels having to prep for war the moment those vocal cords begin to vibrate The uncertainty of success And the vivid discomfort of the person On the other side of his face ...

First, she thinks, or maybe not Like everyone else whose thoughts don’t have to rot Words repeated in her cerebral Before vented through her buccal A consistent battle between within and without Almost like a caged bird with no out Wanting to man the skies higher But for a red muscular barrier She silently hopes her tongue and vocal cords Have reached a ceasefire as regards their discords So many jokes and words and clapbacks Consigned to the bins of her mind in black sacks. ...