AKRASIA

Gifted hands at sketching nudities since two

Mama’s proscription of demonic possessions scared you

The sun shone at your star and it was true

But you were too busy not breaking mama’s rule

Look at you!

The genius of Michelangelo was in your ink, as your tool

Too scared were you to break away from mama’s fallacious credo

You disappoint, you disappoint.

Many maybe every never stopped coitus with perversion

It is preferable to hide this truth with verbosity

But we weak

We just never take the prescription

Give the lad the letter, he nuzzles only the aesthetics

Take the truth to the hearers, they giggle at your diction and pronunciation

Take it to the gentiles, they say preach if they perceive no animosity

But all along they knew the message, just adored their akrasia

Somebody was not ready for the price 

Someone was not keen on nursing ambitions

You disappoint, you disappoint.

And when the time comes, you will know

It will be like thick smudge without rags to wipe

The time for you will come when your mornings meet the night

Then you would wish there was more to tapping your foot on the earth

Where your bright ideas mourn your weak flesh

When you are compelled by regrets to count your fallen stars

The birds of the air will assist your laments with dirges

You wake up into the best advices at grey hairs too late

The absurdities

Your weeping is then grouped with banal anonymity

But you knew you had a passion for drawing

But you refused to take the risk of further discoveries

But no buts.

And if it is fair to learn from a man’s regret

Will it be fair to be the man with such regrets?

Oh! Your choice

Pregnant with resources don’t guarantee a safe delivery of potentials

Too much passion without a thorough mental is a miscarriage

No ambition with abundant wits is murder

Akrasia is abstact noun,

Its reality is in a man’s indecisions

Its spark is in omissions of common knowledge

Its being is the weakness many never wrestle

But it is okay to grow slowly

It shows you love the message not the messenger

Maybe we are artists finding inks as duties

Like the boy, we sketching our purpose from its nudities

Unlike the boy, we sketch it with garments with a step into uncertainties

In our hands lie the ink and paper to write our stories

We are the means

Our silence is the weakness of will in the end

It is not enough to tell oneself that mediocrity is a concern

What you did not do about it makes you history

You disappoint, you disappoint.

OKOCHA OBED