Plight Of My Generation Poem by Damilare Tella

Into their able hands, their fathers trusted
The Jewel of their fathers past
In gold like and diamond form
Confined in glamor, clothed in splendour
In the secret corners of our doting heart
The right to own, we desire, we desire
At youth, we labour for to perfect our 'able' hands
Patiently and anxiously, we await our turn
This we did to noble ourselves and our fathers

Alas, the day has come.
That onto us our fathers must give
The Jewel of our fathers past
Into our noble hands, it was entrusted
Jewel not in glamour but decay
Shattered it is, with its splendour strangled
But accept we must, reject we can't
For our children, for them to live
For death itself now dine with our fathers
An itch, we can't scratch
A wound that won't heal

Oedipus, where is thy face?
why not forewarn us to follow thy step?
Are you not a noble in our tales?
And with what tongue, shall we tell our children
That our fathers' jewel is glorious no more
cause we trusted our fathers
Shall we be praised or scorned
Shall we earn their trust or their hate
Together shall we feast or on us shall they fist

A pain that won't go
An itch we can't scratch
A wound that won't heal
This is the plight of my generation
A scar forever on our conscience.