many times on my gentle grieving heart.
Now I can no longer bleed nor forget you,
for every ounce you've taken has left me too cold to
even feel,
and I shall go on unloving, unfeeling,
as inhumane as any man-made machine.
T'was love that left me too dead to be alive,
and I shall go on unloving, unfeeling for you my dear,
you who made me.
Scarlet Love
I've written words from the blood that
flows from within my own heart,
I made them all into poems,
but still you wouldn't read them.
So for this Valentine,
I may be willing to give you my
whole heart wrapped within a cherry red box.
If you don't mind having me,
bold and in scarlet.
Love in Dysphoria
I thought of everything that never was.
The unspoken thoughts and feelings not yet shared.
I thought about the cold hands of destiny,
how it frequents the weak and the brave.
I thought about the meaning of life and how we are all
inconsequential little speck of dust travelling through
time,
struggling to find meaning in the chaos,
and love in dysphoria.
I wonder why we dance, laugh and sing
when we are moved with joy,
and how we slowly sink
each time we are taken by melancholy.
After all this, I've come to believe
that all life is rare.
And existence however cruel it seems,
should be cherished.
For whatever way we found meaning
un the dust of chaos.
We loved like we
always did,
peacefully and endlessly.
The ancestral song
History tells a tale of Africa.
From sunken ships.
not so long ago
when men made judges of themselves,
to rule over the oppressed.
He witnessed the suffering of my
ancestors as they
followed the ropes of the hangman,
as they were lead to certain death.
And their only company were people of the same
color who rotted before they
found their graves.
But so they sang a lovely song to their gods.
Screaming and wailing,
night and day as they cried,
Oh take me to the land where I once
knew my name.
Where the waters of
Nile flows so abundantly.
And may my fathers before me
send forth death to teach me the
ways of the dead.
For
today I will know what lies at the edge
of tomorrow.
Lagos
I
She's all alone in this city, the streets are busy while
she sits there pretty.
The buses shuttle off back and forth, as the conductor
screams from his teeth all gritty
She counts down a hundred, deep breaths and a sigh
heaved from clarity.
Anxious but unbothered her thoughts run wild in
absurdity.
II
The city where dreams come to die.
This concretes jungle is filled with bones of struggles
and despair.
Fancy cars and funny looking Chinamen travelling far
from shanghai.
Home of countless chubby power-puffed debonair.
Shopping malls and flowers shops with pretty bonsai.
But beware if you wouldn't dare to err.
The story of the writer
The greatest story ever told was
written by a man who never believed in God,
but when he moved his hands
it was as the becoming of gods,
a new sensation,
that mere a mortal
could never feel.
But there he sat writing
like he believed in everything.
like he suddenly believed in the old gods,
the winds,
the trees and all of heaven.
He spawn secrets no man ever knew, as words came
flashing through his mind.
For your eyes only
Each night
I lay far away
counting the stars my friend,
they are beautiful
and just like them
you too were far away
to reach.
But for something that never was
you brought comfort to my soul.
And if it were the old days,
I would think of your kind words as written letters
for my lonely, lonely heart.
So now I write to
tell you the things
I never could.
From the long rainy days
when you would
text me "hello" from your
electronic box,
and we would talk about
Gandhi's philosophy,
like him, I chose a path flowered with peace.
Some days the memories of the time we spent in the
old college walls would slip into my mind,
the days we spent with friends,
Some of whom we've parted ways with.
If this should ever reach you,
know that I have never forgotten you,
even for a day.
And with so much gratitude I will think of you as
fondly as I can.
May your world be littered with flowers and someone
who is not afraid to love you till the very end.
Poetry no one will ever read
Orpheus your poems once ate a nymph.
she's love-struck and now her heart yearns for more,
What did you do?.
Orpheus your poems once deluded a God.
Now he's bonkers, insane I say.
You must write to us more,
dear Orpheus.
II
Today I met two bearded maidens.
I couldn't tell if they were men
or if Apollo sent them to chase me.
Is it that time of the year when
madness comes upon me.
My ballads are written only for Virgins who sit
steadfastly at my door every morning, waiting for my songs.
But no more.
From this day
I will write poems no one will ever read.
Not until my death, will these words
fall from your lips.
I Am
I am the lover of lost souls,
the faun that cast the dust.
I am the air that brings the morning, and the night that takes it away.
All the love that I've had, I spent it on the night and her creatures.
I am to be what men hold sacred, a single feather from the wings of a fallen angel.
God in a bottle
A man sat down
by the bar, with a bottle of
whiskey.
And while the angels sang
he listened
to the preaching’s
of a crooked
