She broke up with him today.
I’ve never seen her so distraught,
So vulnerable like ever before today.
For the very first time, her stubbornness had dissolved into water droplets.
It’s been said time and again
that love is a complicated thing.
There is a certain amount of courage, almost foolishness that makes you put your heart on your sleeves, each time.
Yet, almost like an addiction, I see them throw themselves at the risk.
Repeating the process that has now come to be normal with growing up – heartbreaks.
The thrill of a companion is what drives them most times.
I wish it wasn’t.
It’s a downhill fall if the solution to the hole within was to fill it with the sweet words of a companion.
For why would teeth be plucked out from excessive intake of sugar?
As ladies of a new generation,
I wish we wouldn’t be so vulnerable to societal norms.
I wish we would learn to see that self-worth is the best filling.
I wish we would learn to throw away the items society has thrown in our face to hide our flaws.
I wish we would learn to be comfortable in our own skins.
I wish we would learn to eat and dress for ourselves.
I wish we would learn to never be afraid to let out the warriors in us.
I wish we would learn to see how much more we could be,
if the strength came from within.
In response to Anna Akhmatova’s ‘You Will Hear Thunder’
“It is poets and philosophers who tend to think clearly of death”
I shall dance in the pouring rain
And my footsteps shall create sandstorms.
My spins and twirls more on point that tornados in
My movement: poetry that will swallow you deeper
Than the waves of tsunamis.
My name shall live longer than named hurricanes.
* A poem a little early than usual as I shall be participating in an MUN competition this Sunday.
via Daily Prompt: Exposed
I have seen her fall on make up after their fights.
She uses it to cover up their rocky relationship.
She doesn’t do it well.
He speaks out for women’s right and compliments strong women but he likes her under his wing.
He likes her at home, where he knows she shall always be safe.
He doesn’t like her begging him for money but he constantly gives her the change.
She appreciates it and smiles brightly each time.
She complains of being naive but doesn’t do anything about it.
She wants to be free but she fears being exposed, vulnerable to a not so safe world.
At night, when she sleeps, she dreams of courage.
During the day, she prays for a better life for her children.
A timely piece with all the political and military tension all over the world.
In response to Sidney Keyes’s “War Poet”
“War Poet” is a simple poem which I believe Sidney Keyes used to show that he did not fit in on the battle field and that it was against his decision to be there in the first place. I believe it is also his interpretation of what happens when War and Poetry mix together- the risk of insanity and thus his wasted potential. “Pen VS Arrow” plays with the two possible decisions Sidney could have made along with the difficulties of both decisions hence hoping to bring to light the difficulty of war.
All my life, my pen has been my protector.
I wasn’t one who knew how to really use anything else.
I never believed that anything could defend me better than words –which I used as armor.
So, imagine the confusion I was faced with when I found out some had used a pen to uproot the lives of others and forgone it as a protector.
Trust upon me was the decision to be like all men my age and dawn on courage for the sake of my country, the future of its people and ultimately peace.
Trust upon me was the fact that such a decision could lead to my death and hence the death of a man for a cause he did not wholeheartedly believe in or better still in which its solution, he did not wholeheartedly believe in.
Trust upon me was years of rehabilitation, the possibility of insanity and thus lost potential.
Yet on the other side,
Present was the decision to abandon my country when she and my people needed me most and the weight of the guilt.
Present was also the opportunity to grow as a writer but also the threat of insanity due to the guilt that would scratch my doors.
Will my pen help me see to the end of this problem?
Only the dead have seen the end of war.
April 14th, was the third anniversary of the kidnapping of 276 girls, from the Government Girls Secondary School, school dormitories, in Chibok, Nigeria.
This poem is a cry for the safe return of the rest of the 195 girls that have yet to return.
It’s been three years now. Three years since the 276 girls were taken by force, in the dark of the night from the place that was the foundation of their aspirations. It’s been three years since 195 girls have last seen their families.
It is hard to comprehend. Always has been. However, it’s a luxury for those whose problem is in comprehending how such an evil could happen and not in how it had happened to them. It is difficult comprehending how people said to be human beings could celebrate the kidnapping of girls on the path of a better future. It is difficult comprehending why the government has yet to rescue the 195 of them.
There are things many of us will fail to fully understand. The emotion the parents feel when the next girl, who was managed to make it back home, isn’t their daughter. The emotion a mother feels when her daughter comes back with a baby although she is almost half the age, her Mother was when she had her first child. The agony some of the girls felt losing their babies while escaping.
However, despite the mess, a few thing are clear. Justice shall prevail, we are not afraid, and we shall #BringBackOurGirls.
It’s hidden in
The aftermath of the stories they create
The aftermath of living in storyland and experiencing all they wished they could but couldn’t or/and didn’t dare to in the real world
Tennessee Williams, a profound writer
Who didn’t believe in original sins or guilt but in the reasoning that the right or wrong that individuals make is “by necessity or by certain still-comprehended influences in themselves, their circumstances, and their antecedent”
How would Tennessee Williams explain his own tragic death from asphyxiation?
The fancy word for
His chocking on a plastic medicine cap
An irony or a protest?
It’s hidden in
The 15-20 mins planned story I performed
About how I lived in the Worlds of the characters in my novels
Placed myself in their shoes and took their skin
For so long, for too long
That I was facing the consequences of
A slowly but surely dying body
Due to a disease unknown to man
It’s hidden in
My poem STORYLAND
In which the very reason I open a book
Books which are so much like life
With a beginning and an end
With many adventures in between
Is simply for the joy of experiencing
More than I ever could in this life time
It’s hidden in
The New Year Resolutions we make
The bucket list we create
Our search for love
The dreams we hunt for and the goals we hope to fulfill
But most especially the uncertainty of death at any point in time
That lingers in the air
It’s hidden in
But it’s not that hard to see
Here has come one of the rarest moments,
where listening to my music
doesn’t wrap me in my bubble of bliss.
Everything is different.
The beats from my earphones doesn’t swallow me whole.
The soothing melody no longer swings on the tip of my tongue.
I am lost, my dreams long lost on a cliff.
I am shouting, lungs out,
crying a river that shall take me away.