I want to be an artist,
But I am just a poet and a playwright,
Drawing in words,
How the “Awesome Masked Dancer” emerged,
What about ‘Michael Jackson’s’ grave being looted?
Ask our patron at the time,
I do love nature,
I chose a forested village setting,
Watched a little girl practice ballet dances,
And felt it when she twisted her wrist,

To impress me with a beautiful art from Swiss,
I want to be an artist,
But I am just a poet and a playwright,
With a pencil, sheet, paint and brush,
I’ll start as soon as possible,

I want to be an artist,
Yet I am just a poet and a playwright,
Somebody who can’t draw like Nina,
But I do draw in words,
Like Madam Efua Sutherland,

A Shakespeare, a Rotimi,
A Bai T. Moore,
I want more of it,
In fact, all of it,
Like drawing “sexy Rose” eating juicy fruit gums,
An artist,
The artist who drew the other Rose,
Which didn’t grow,
I want to be an artist,
Who drew the musician who revives the soul,

The artist who sang the mountain songs,
And still waiting to draw the Nimba ranges,
Or the sorrowful sick face of my pet dog,
And yet don’t fear the fierce horrid face of ‘Mamie Wata’,
The artist I want to be;

Is not through a sonnet,
Telling about my sea travel,
And all the troubles and struggles during my freshman days,
Yet only true artists,
Can draw the ‘pain in love’,
An artist,
Being a poet is sickening,
Seasonal is a playwright,
But I added a taste to my real skills,

Made me a good artist,
An artist who drew a shining star,
The woman with a baby on her back,
In mere words,
Like a letter from a lover,

If I gets better,
As the days gets brighter,
I know I shall reach higher,
With I standing on the shoulders of Wilton Sankawolo,
I’ll chunk the world with the clouds.