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There are Sometimes my ink stop flowing, for my home is chasing my shadow consistently 
And pushing my feet to the horror world

For the home is telling me "I am not of her"

 pick the lost memories back 
Where love is a past memories with sad tales 

Flashing me back to the year I was picked by the river bank, where I was placed by my so called African mother

 
She told me how I was rapped in a beautiful stain rope and in an okin box

How I was dis-abore by my so called pilot and how the sun as scorch me out of me before her, grasping me
That is the tales........... 

I weep for the boy in me, for my mouth now understand only two language of white sad memories and black beautiful woe of tomorrow 
Since mama says am not of her, you are of south repeatedly voiced
 
You are not of ikechukwu neither chinedu 

For we are a classically molded by God 

but you are the left over which can never be part of our apartment 
That is the maxim. 

Now I lost in my thinking tank 

For the  love to bond is stolen and the one house we reside is now share to department, 

the department which bundle out millions of soul and refuses to repair the old new life
 
But I knew........ 
my lost sister is of found 
For the sweetness in diversity unity is back to the first page of her heart

And my brother from another part, 

Have gone to where unity reside  and the weight of the word Unity is reveal

The earth is happy cos ' the chords between her and her son' s:
moon, sun, star and cloud is of singular
 
For today........... 
We are born to be born in other to grow wing

 not of plurality but of oneness 

For the unity is of God 
And foretold is of fulfil

For the penny we plant to yield many
The room we divorce must be re-marry. 

[image](https://lilpickmeupdotcom.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/friendship.jpg)