I’m sick of being a field of ideas.
Daily, hourly I imagine how YOU can make yourself bigger, brighter, more.
Weekly you come with promises of me growing with you and yet monthly I see myself becoming poorer.

I’m sick of being the womb that nurtures rich ideas.
I feed your young until they are ready to be birthed.
My labour pains as I struggle for breath to make sure your businesses, plays, books, project, jobs make it in this all too real world are all for nought.
My struggles are forgotten as you feed your bellies with my sweat, my love and my energy which I offered because you said we could grow together.

I’m sick of being the nurse who you bring your sick and ailing minds to!
I heal you, body, mind and soul and yet all the thanks I get from you is post cards from Paris and you recalling how sick you once were.
My sleepless nights poring over possible solutions to what ailed you are long forgotten.
You used to whisper what you would do for me when you got well!

I am sick and tired of being used!
I love to help but I am done with pretense!
Your pretenses of love, growth I am done with!
My art I do out of love. Love for the ones who fed me when I was hungry, nursed me when I was sick!
What do I feed them now that they are hungry? What do I give them now that they are sick?

I am sick of your empty promises.
Leave me to work honestly for the one who love me.
Your words are like empty cans kicked about; all they do is make noise.
I am sick of myself for having faith in you.

My spine straightens today.
I have done my part and made you strong.
All along I have been going about it wrong.
At least to myself I have proved my talents.
I will be on my way.