This life, it's a boxing ring

we are constantly

jumping on a dagger trampoline

it's up to you

and me, to throw the punches

or be punched,

to serve the K.O.'s

or be T.K.Oed

Mr. Obstacle is the boxer,

he dances like riddles

solve the conundrum of persistence

and your punch

shall surely hit him hard

He's ripped,

muscles of defeat

black trunks of frustration

weighs dark pounds

of furnacing pressure

but you must be body-built

in the gym of visions;

lifting the weights of determination,

to defeat this

epitome of destruction

that has long

corrupted our system with disbelief,

take him down!

and set the world free

from the conviction of limitation.

By Kakraba Afful

Only he, could reveal the secret,

but your flaws does solicit

with utmost care,

when friendship hugs him,

but falaws turn to a snare

when he unleashes it

as the smile of dynamite

In the name of jokes, a jocular tunic

does he hide his dagger

ready to strike,

when you don't give

him what he wants

He is a vending machine,

nothing goes for free,

but gently disguised

himself as friendship,

surely will not stand by

you when the hurricane,

strikes,

and shall even sedn

the tornadoes and the gale,

to tell the novel of treachery

But this breathing lie,

will be unmasked by

the discovery of time,

where the truth

shall be seen for what

it is.

By Kakraba Afful

Happiness smokes a cigarrette

by the amber's glitter,

the smoke invades its lungs

and its black heart already,

blackens with walking destruction

Look!

Happiness smokes a cigarrette

and financial lust,

an economic nicotine,

that magnetizes expenditure

Happiness smokes a cigarrette

as my mind becomes lofty

beyond the fog,

with voices in my brain,

may I pardon my heart,

that it permits me to cough

and my life to cough

Happiness smoke a cigarrette

and my eyes redden

with a clogged mind,

the prophecy of rigid tears

to caome,

the alcohol, the cider

and the silently, timed

murder of luxury,

grabs me by its jaws.

By Kakraba Afful

You see me,

but the mirror of your eyes

do not declare me sane

enough for the fluence of your mind

I realise verbal hate

and the complacency of your intelligence,

sits, relaxed,

full of false prophecy

You sit on top of the panel,

your mind refuses to wisely meander

and hands refuse to feel,

the grow numb,

by the hormone of surfaceness

and with an intentional negligence,

fail to see reality,

invading fantasy,

with the swagger of wrong words

You are the judge,

sitting on the couch

of your own justice

and sentencing me

to life or death

heavenly or hell

the truth conceived by

the womb of your

mentality shall surely tell.

By Kakraba Afful