Subject Matter (Story of My Life)

 

A second born of three children with no father

At a very tender age I also lost my mother

Down my innocent face tears guttered

as I walked to the streets all but flustered.

A family and parental love was the subject matter.

Night workers called me a cold buster
I spent most of my nights by a filthy dumpster

closing my eyes hoping for the night to pass faster

At every crack of dawn new days of troubles I ushered

A roof on my head was the subject matter.

Up and running before the town was astir

I didn’t work in an office; I was a street art master

I Juggled and danced hoping for a bigger cluster

of people to watch my stunts. I was a busker.

A well paying job was the subject matter.

I dug restaurants’ dumpsters for a piece of Muenster

I wondered what it felt like to have bread and butter

for breakfast, heavy lunch and a delicious supper?

Salad, juicy steak then cheese cake on a silver platter

A decent meal on the table was the subject matter.

I rolled on the track of faith with a loose caster

I needed to talk to God for my broken heart to plaster

I later stopped going to church because I hated my pastor

I then tried Islam, Buddhism and later become a Rasta!

A true spiritual journey was the subject matter.

If you asked me what life was, I’d say it was a disaster

Like a lonely injured bird, its wings it could not flutter

I walked bare feet, empty stomach, scars and blisters

In a world of misery, days of the same, life full of clutter

A meaning of life was the subject matter.

-Edwin Onyango