When the pen itches… by Osalam Wosu 

My ink and my quill 

My script and my will

My muse on my arm 

My verse of a farm

To add a touch of class

My drink’s in my glass

Now at long last

I can put down 

My poem,  my last…. 


My poetry walks by on  

   broken limbs

Satirical mirrors before me

But I behold all others’ sins
The boy said “heroes never win 

        at last any more”

Sorrow has altered pure verse in 

         the denouement 

Little one, today is simileous to 

         days of old

When personification breathed 

         life unto gold
My diction is laden with words 

         of injustice

Happy endings have bequeathed   

         our scripts to Thespis

Elision now omit not vowels but 


Free verse is now restrained, 

      ravaged by tyranny’s claws
Irony is cynosure, but to the 

      grave it leads 

Hyperbole is sweet,  but only our 

      pride it feeds 

Tragedy kicks at the nadir of 

      the situation 

So off- centered I write, my sole 

©2017  (2edged pen)

If my off centered poetry is a crime 

I accept all guilt

For even the Earth with frame sublime 

On its axis does tilt… 

-2edged pen