Jumpman, Jumpman, jumpman.
nah this ain’t a poem about Michael Jordan, sports, raps, the game, how much I got, or about how I wish I wrote something smoother for the ladies.
This is simply a poem titled 23, the amount of years I’ve been alive.
I was young, I broke my arm. How unfortunate, but broken bones heal, and now it seems stronger than ever.
I had a tumour in my arm, but it was benign, it wasn’t cancerous, though at the time I didn’t think it was that serious.
I looked at my mum, and she looked worried. I said calm down, I’ll be all good in a hurry.
I’m still young, I come home and the vibe is strange. I throw my bag down, open my mums door and have never seen so much pain.
I’m twelve, what’s wrong I ask, I get nothing. I run out the room in search of answers, in search of something.
I asked my brother, what’s wrong, no response. I look at my sister, hey what’s wrong ?
Bruce, he passed away, she said. No goodbye’s, nothing back, left our lives, just like that.
The sky seemed grey, even when it was blue. I mean, I was confused and didn’t really know what to do.
I said mum, hey it will be alright. I packed my bags and left for Uganda, I didn’t really understand her, but on I went.
I love writing, but I seem to always get caught in writing about romance.