I tried to kiss the Mic

Every time I get a proposal

To marry the podium

And spit my poetry.

But I have watched too much

Of Maya Angelou;

Her old but gold witty voice

that crushes grammars

to make way for silky words

in the wetland of her audience’ heart.

My own, that sounds to me

Like a busted bass of buka music box,

Of course, it is my own.

So I give it a warm hug every morning,

Polish it with palm kernel oil

Of that Osun dialect.

It conquered star

To shine and sparked emotions on stage.

It is my own voice;        

My own performance poetry;

I’m sure Maya would love to sound like me now.