Lonely

Loneliness eats my confidence
Bite after bite
I reminisce the fulfilling times
I had with me
The journey in my house
Eyes closed
Mind loose
Traversing beyond boundaries
Mysteries demystified
Under carpets swept
And cobwebs removed from
Dark corners of my mind
I remember the empty stages
Epic performance
Just me Marley and me
Now the veil is torn
Normalcy is boring stiff
And loneliness won’t let me be!

Bread wars

She just wanted to live
A beautiful soul with nothing but love
Women strip for fame
But all she wanted was bread
A baby starved in a tin-roofed house
Friends and family weren’t close
As word went round
That gods sent their fire to destroy her
“Who stands in the way of gods?”
“Aren’t they the ones who give leprosy
To those who’ve sinned?”
Life goes on
She wonders what she owes the world
Isn’t it the same world that molested her?
That night darkness loomed
Creatures of the night feasted
On her innocence
And blood flowed
Taking in its wake
Her dignity
Weren’t they the same people who preached love?
Why do they serve hate?
Now she has to raise a child on her own
And still apologize to him for not knowing his father
This baby cries a lot
Where can she get bread?

The End

Yearnings unfilled
Hollows me
The crowd cheers on
Laughter deluge my cries
And none saw
The silence, the tension
The dying embers
The shredding of life
I walked home dead
Suicide note wasn’t found
Dem hypocrites cried
Distant relatives became close
To mock me
Wasn’t it stupid?
They ask
Couldn’t he talk?
When nobody heard when I called
Nobody pulled my hand
As currents swept me under

A Toast To Anything

Clinking glasses of red wine in hands on rustic wooden planks ba

Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to the comfort of unemployment and humility of empty sugar dishes, to absinthe and innocence-eyed cougars, to landlord notices, to music, to cold nights and warm bodies, to contraceptives and missed periods… and to the good life, whatever it is and wherever finds you, to sighs of missed calls, to serenity of nature and positive vibrations it brings with it…

Let’s toast to pretty faces and big asses,to supple lips and seductive eyes, to smitten pastors and falling bibles…to rumbling stomachs and naked tissue rolls, to missing left socks and stripped bible pages, to blocked drainages and grey water, to missing family members, to absences found in presence of nagging wives, to weed and chimney noses, to thirst for righteousness and magnetism of pornography, to failed attempts and soiled hopes, to bodies torn after deities’ duel, to life in fullness; what you consider it to be!
Thank You, God for simplifying life
Thank you God for a chance to right my wrongs
Thank you God for Nesta or Isabella
Youtube, Thank you for another euphoric sound escape!

Maybe She Wants

I watched her fidget on the seat
Her thighs exposed
And her lips moist with seduction
And her eyes craving for below-belt adventures
She’s a girl who’ll be remembered
For her breasts; younger than dawn
She raises her bust exposing that cleavage
She’s savage
Biting her lower lip eliciting
Sensuous pleasures
Maybe she wants, maybe she doesn’t

The night was young,
The breasts were firm
And her mons wet and inviting
She shakes her thighs
Opening and closing
Ying yang
Ying yang
Maybe she wants, maybe she doesn’t

But I can’t wait anymore
Things are stiffening down here
The stiffest part of me is nodding in salute
So I’ve gotta indulge in this
Illicit pleasures
No guilt
I just wanna get some satisfaction
And calm my hormones
But,
Maybe be she wants, maybe she doesn’t

I pull her to my bed and she obeys
Clothes peeling
And hearts thumping
Up in here, shoot that deeper
Skin ravaging skin
And lip feasting on lip
The grip tightens
As dick bulges
And she scratches and uproots my locks
Suddenly she’s lost
In sexual euphoria
She trembles and takes breaths in fits
Silence…
Still, up in here, shoot that deeper
Moments later
“Thank you”, she said
So glad
That my erection lived long enough
To write the eulogy of her orgasm
On her lips…

Bad Ones

There comes a times when all you do backfires on you
When she keeps mum and hurts
And still blames you for not knowing her problem
When your hi sounds bye
And your laughter mocks her
And your love just hangs there
Waiting for her to be the girl you knew
And she drops you an sms
” you can never make me happy”
And you feel your balls melting under the weight of self-loathe
Your heart doesn’t respond, it’s dried
The only proof that it lives on is the fact that you’re still alive
Your patience reserve isn’t rich
But you try to give her space
And pray, that you will change
For you’re always the bad one

pages in history

History is present
Troubling us with repeats of yesterday’s mayhem
Blood didn’t dry
And ground wasn’t barren
So seeds of hate sprouted
Watered by sycophancy and greed
What’s right isn’t profitable
What’s profitable isn’t right
Like freedom fighters who lost all while freeing the nation
We have been looted by those we paid to protect our wealth
And they’ve killed us for defending whats ours
Big cars they drive
Fuelled by our thin wallets
And soon they’ll back to shed more blood
For the gods they worship
The nation isn’t ours
We dont belong
We’re pawns on a chessboard
No life of our own
But just items of trade
And bargaining chip for political supremacy
So slavery isn’t dead
Just a page in history
Embeded on the present

😒😒A Letter to the Living Dead😒😒

I have written before
But, I will write some more
My letters do reach you and I hope you’ll answer

My dearest husband, this isn’t the life we dreamt of, and that doesn’t cause me pain. What hurts me is that you created us and broke us when you sighted a virtual petite half your age.
I now live in permanent fear because I dread the question, what will I tell them when they begin asking about you?
Should I lie?

Or do I just make it clear that my thighs weren’t warm enough to bring you home? Will these children understand? Because I have seen the question in their eyes, it just remains unspoken.

Forgive me for not beginning with a greeting of any kind, for 9 years are too long and a lot have changed in this life and so are my priorities. This is a microwave age, you hit the spot, no dilly-dallying. Plus, wouldn’t greeting you unearth the beautiful memories I’ve buried in our backyard?

I don’t want to remember you, at least as the man I married. These memories are razors too sharp to cut, so they burn: all the dreams of our children, all the promises we made to them in the hospital, and all the longings of my heart for the man you were before short skirts short wired your brain.

I had seen it coming, the siren was loud enough to awaken the dead but it wasn’t loud enough to enlighten a fool in love. The nights were lonely and sleep was elusive, the nights you locked yourself in your study and wore your thick glasses and began your lessons, only for sexual noises to flood my room hours later.

And I would hear you unlocking the bedroom door and slink into my sheets, you’d spend the night moaning strange names and shit talking. It might have taken long but I knew the internet woman had taken my place in your loins.

And I hoped, prayed, and wrote letters to heaven to give me my husband back, but all the while you had gotten used to flawless thighs the world had to offer, albeit virtually.
I wasn’t a woman enough to satisfy your sexual needs, but d’you mean to say a motion picture is warmer than me? It would be different if you cheated with a living female, but I swallowed my pride and prayed some more for things to change.

Every night as I tucked my children, I hugged them tighter, and in every hug was a whispered prayer that they might have a taste of the man I married. The loving husband, the caring father and the foundation of our home but you were too busy making love to your virtual women to chorus the Hail Mary refrain.

The morning you left, I cried. It seemed like any other day but my intuition told me otherwise, deep down I knew there was no conference, but I still waited for the two weeks to elapse in the belief that you couldn’t desert your children. It’s now 9 years and the conference isn’t over yet.

I have heard rumours, of sworn affidavits and changed names. I have also heard rumours of short skirts and young women and late night diners, I was happy when I heard the latter for I knew you were learning to be a man again.

Just so you know, I haven’t been idle, shoot, I’ve got children to feed and school and though we were thrown into the streets like wild dogs, heavens opened its gates and ushered us in. I now have a job, my children are learning with white kids, perhaps they’re taught how to be men.

But wait?

Isn’t that ironical? That the same whites who taught my husband how not to be a man can teach my kids how to be men? I think I need a new school.

Certainly, I didn’t write this letter to tell you all this, what I want is simple. Meet your kids. Give them a chance of knowing how not to be a father.

Don’t ask how I got your address, I changed my name too. And it’s a small world. I’m so sorry I couldn’t approve your tender, my corporation only works with real humans. 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂
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