I’ll Let Go

One day I’ll master enough strength
To spell your absence
And live with the reality
in print

I’ll mask the heart you’ve hurt
This stupid heart that yearns
And aches for the gentleness of your words

Words that would weave an insult into berries
And serve them as thanks
For the travails I put you through

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The leveler

I want to write
But the strange thing about words is
They slip through the mesh of your mind
flooding your judgment
With imperfections
Poor diction here,
You should have used imagery there,
This poem is too basic!
You killed your success
Before it could escape the jaws of perfection
For fear of rejection
You detoured from your destination
And sought opinions and corrections
Before fusion
Of words with purpose
now you’ve stagnated
Your own growth
But like a traveler in the midst of a desert
Craves a drop of water
We all crave a drop of inspiration
When pages lay blank
When poems remain letters
Without purpose nor destination
Then you remember we’ve all had these words
The perfect artist has them
The sorry poet has them
The same
Levelers
Of creation
And then the wind blew
We all loved the cool breeze
But someone made a windmill
And now he mills profits
And the sun came up
Shone on and on
The palace and the tenement
To the rich and the poor
Second chance for all
To solve the puzzles of yesterday
Don’t wait
To apportion blame
It’s a leveler
It shone
Brightened our paths
A fresh chance
To kick the dark spots
Off your path

PS: Also read: https://chevvy8.com/2017/02/25/something-happened/comment-page-1/

Apathy

I saw them
Protruding ribs
Scaly thighs
Spelt the darkness
In which they dwell
No food
No water
No family
Nothing
You call it life
They call it travail
As the government
Works to achieve vision 2030
They can’t even dream to be alive tomorrow
Life departed with the sea
And left them at cove
All that remains are living carcasses
Empty belies
And bitter bile
Famine and droughts
Pushed them to the edge of death
As impatient vultures fly by
Just waiting for their last breath
If that delays, they’ll do the kill
Corruption still ate their share of the nation
They became citizens
Indebted to the government
When I reached out
Societal apathy had scotched their entire being
So humans lie in wait
A feast for vultures

Slivers of Darkness

I’m done writing this note
I’m done being here,
Where critical eyes never sleep
But reason is blind

I have been here too long
Memories still pierce my heart
With every sliver of its being
My past hates itself in the mirror
So it fixed my inequities on darts board
And used my heart as a bulls eye
A target for all ill will begets

I knew no one cared
I knew they marveled
In my distress
I knew they cowered in fear
When my victories seemed near

Tell them they won
Tell them I couldn’t fight them
Because I spent my life
Fighting the guilt they
Bestowed upon me
A weight for weary being

Remind them of the dark days
The blind mornings
When unfathomable darkness
Sojourned in my soul
And made it home

Tell them of the swollen eyes
And damp pillows
Remind them;
Of the crimson kitchen floor
Of Blood stained razors
Of ripped wrists
Of sore eyes
And crow’s-feet beneath them

Did they know how it felt?
To search for belonging in this weary world
Remind them when ‘different’ changed meaning
Different meant inferior,
Not enough,
Looser,
Cunt,
Suspect,
And synonyms

How costly belonging is?
Even smoking weed
Couldn’t afford it
Even buying them drinks
Couldn’t afford it
They were friends until I had them drunk
Then they’ll insult me
For buying them too much!

What of the answers I sought?
I can’t wait for the answers
It’s time to go
Don’t let them read my obituary
I wrote the last edition of my suicide note
Let them read it instead!

Battlefield

Darkness is all I see
A fight from within
A person torn in two
Demand of flesh
Vs
Religious allegiance
God
Vs
Satan
But,
Must I be the bait?
A conduit for deities
To fulfill their purposes
And manifest their divine power?
Why do I come back here?
Why do I break my promises?
Indulgence?
With hefty prices to pay
Self-loathe,
Floored confidence,
Loneliness,
What more shall I pay?
I wait for that day
When this war will be over
I’m tired of fighting a war
Where victor and villain
Is just but one person
I wait for that day,
When this war will be over
Am I no more than a battlefield?
Why do corpses rot in my belly?
Why is my face charred?
With burnt stumps of guilt
will this war ever be over?

Lengthen the Rope

I’m not your dream husband
There’s a lot you haven’t known
I’m just a loose-leafed book
And my pages caress with winds
I’m just a thirsty traveler,
I drink chilly waters
from coolest rivers
but no river can change my course
nor end my adventures
You love me?
I know
I wish I could love you in equal measure
But love is a strange thing
Those who give it
Never get it back
Mine is a heart of stone
Love can never sprout
Blame it
On the one before you
Who ripped it apart
when the vultures had fed on the pieces
The heart mender filled the frame with stones
I feel no emotions
Just concern
Dear this thing will hurt you
But you can’t tether me
I enjoy my adventures
In the forests of the valley
And tenderness of the hills
I traverse between small and large crevices
Sapping
Elixir for my worn soul
Dear if you have to tether me
Lengthen the rope
I’am a wild goat
I eat the healthiest plantain shoots
If you must tether me
Lengthen the rope

Cornmeal porridge

I love poetry. This might be because it is the only form of art that allows free expression. No rules, just heart-pouring. Being a poet, I often find myself thinking about things people never even notice. Yesterday, as I walked to church, I saw this beggar, sitting by the side of the road, whistling people to come close and drop something in his cup.

None came, all of them walked at a safe distance as if they feared he might pounce on their wallets. However, some came closer to the beggar and just as his hopes rose, they passed without looking his way. And I learn’t that those who walked at a safer distance were better that the latter who deposited dusts from there steps into the beggar’s cup.

I stood glued. As he kept calling, I imagined him shaking dust off the cup in while murmuring to himself “if dust was cornmeal floor, i’d have a cornmeal porridge”. And I moved past in steady strides, repeating the rituals of prior passers-by, church was waiting.

Of Battered Men

We’re the ones who welcome
The rising sun with unspoken questions
Should we leave should we stay?
Should we give should we ask?
Should we be grateful?
Should we complain?
Because marriage hasn’t been paradise
And promises became autonyms
Hearts have since grown colder
And lips bolder
They speak what they want
They tell of the mistakes that was
“Having kids was a mistake”
“Marrying you was a mistake”
So she slept on my bed
And drew the boundary
Do not even touch me
You’ll never own me
Coitus?
I’ll have it with men of substance
So I count the many times:
I resisted an attempt to hit her
I mopped her vomit off the floor
I sang lullabies so our children
Wouldn’t see her drunk
I checked my bank account
Just to know if it guaranteed a future
Without her
Now my children know their father is no man at all
Because every night they hear he say so