He was 18 years old
Old enough to drive
Old enough to vote
Old enough to smoke his lungs black and bold.
But he wasn't cold
He wanted to become a poet
And started off with a simple quote
Which lead to a sailing boat.
With an anthology of poems
All filled with my name
He made me feel so grown
He never caused me any pain.
With great ambition
And a sprinkle of passion
That strangely became an addiction
And not to mention a tradition.
He is my forest of trees
That sends out a friendly breeze
With such a beautiful scent
That causes a cute sneeze.
He is my clauque of hired applauders
That roars to a line of
One of my inspired poems.
He is my ream of paper
That I scribble on and express my emotions
And put my thoughts on paper
Daily, over and over again.
He is my valiant hero
Waiting for my cry for help
For he will swing down
With so much velocity.
He is my chest of treasure
That I found alongside the seas of the Pacific
That felt so precious
In the palms of my hands.
He is my teddy bear
Looks so chubby
But yet so grumpy
Though easy to bear.
He is Tshepiso
He is my NaNa
Thee Jimmy Tonic
And he is my hubby.
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Comments about this poem (He... by Mamello Maholela )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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