Wasted Men Poem by Tshepo Malekutu

You standing at the corner,
and you are voiceless to cream for help,
ended in solitude in the darkness,
darkness of your dungeon decisions,
with gold teeth and no sense to think,
no mind to reason among your people,
wasted man with babies, with no care for them,
standing as a spooky, dope, thick, funky man,
man you are repository encyclopedia of hate,
which filtered your life as a peasant,
as your nature despised right,
you were The Count of Monte Cristo but your name is inked dross,
you've have dusted and ruined your soul,
you lost control of the doors and the world is closing down,
guilty and regrets is your friend,
because your bucket is not empty,
second chances is burning with flames through your eyes,
and hold nothing in high regards but sorrows and envy,
only breathing shame and anger,
and cursed and witched yourself with pride,
you were beclouded to see that; no man is an island.