Category Archives: #poetry

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

But….

but
WTF you BUTT!

One of the transitions that break hearts,
Kills dreams and belittles everything
But emboldens incompleteness…

It was a delicious meal, BUT too much fat
She’s beautiful, BUT she’s got a small ass
He is very bright, BUT so hostile
He’s very talented, BUT damn broke
He earns a lot, BUT he’s mean
He loves a lot, BUT he loves the wrong people
……….Et cetera, et cetera………..
The last time my complement transited with a BUT…
I felt its end sour in my mouth before it was spoken
It’s worse when it comes from someone more broken
More desolate,
More beaten
Until you ask yourself who really needs a complement
So I ask can’t a sentence ever be complete without BUT?
Can’t we appreciate the good things
And make them bold enough
For others to see?

Cheater’s Flesh for Vultures

Love Pencil Art Wallpaper Pencil Art Hd Wallpaper
I love you so much. So much that if this love died today, I would ask for your pair of hands.
We’d carry it to the crematorium and set it on fire. Dead love has no place in our lives. Our bones will be oozing with pus from slain promises and bruised trust.

With honesty; every ounce left of it, I will look in your eyes and confess that my heart loved you most. But, it is the ‘omnivorousness’ of the human heart that drifted my eyes from the single bird I had caged to the beautifully colored ones in the depths of the forest.

I would tell you of the nights I left a piece of my heart roasting in their barbecues and came home with painful scabs dried by a hot iron. I would also tell you of the hollowness this filled me with. The remorse I felt for having betrayed your trust.

I would tell you the truth. When I shed tears as you stitched my heart, it wasn’t because the anesthetics didn’t work; it’s because the gentleness with which you touched my wounds hurt me most. It was like poking the dying embers of my guilt and shame, making the fire too big for all the four chambers of my heart, still clogged with fragments of lies. My dear, you didn’t see tears, you saw steam of my evaporating inequities.

In the end, you’ll know I knew you tried to make me better. But hormones outweighed morals in my priority meter. He whose hormones do a shot for– slowly kills his own brain.

As the fire would burn, smoke will rise to the sky, sending a message to the creator that man had set apart what he’d put together. At this point, I will send a prayer for lightening to strike me, and God will not answer like he never does when I ask him for a contented heart. We’ll blame his grace.

I will then ask you, “Mercy, please stab me, kill me and spray my carcass with the ash of our love from the crematorium oven”.

Please don’t bury me. Feed me to birds of prey, Let my life be worth something. A cheater’s flesh is a hearty meal to starving vultures.

Please feed be to the birds of prey, give my death a purpose.

 

 

Scathed

I detoured,
I changed paths
but still I ended up
at the very destination
I was evading

The more you repel
the greater the attraction
The more you indulge
The deeper the void
These days, my soul
swoons in the gloom
as belief slithers away
I’m losing vital parts of me
And growing parts I hate to have
My eyes are heavily smudged
with despondency
Nights overstay
Days are painful hues of red
Something is scathed inside
Could be hope
could be faith
could be discipline
As it bleeds
It rots and burns my belly
Till hell is poked inside me
flickers rise, sparks violence
then razor edges stained
They’ll rust
as my cuts heal
Maybe tomorrow
I’ll not need to cut

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/