Beautiful  Stitches Of Pain

Life has become a memory

Dressed in smoke at dusk

And by dawn, fallen petals of a wilted dream

At times for the homeless hearts,

I dragged in smoke to form a hut in my chest

Other times, I find home in the curves of bottles, a chilled burning whisper of silence

I’m a wanderer in my own house

Searching for a home in a smile

Through walls that binds me,

A pair of feathers for my dreams

I held the balls of the world in my hands

And I heard the screams of a failed dream

My eyes became a stream of boiling water

Flooding through the claustrophobic vacuum of hopelessness.

Whenever I think of Nigeria

I get a bullet of euphoria on the forehead

I have roasted words into popcorn

Not without trepidation

Nor surreptitiously

Yet, these foreigners won’t order

 Because my blood is GREEN.

Now,

My dreams are swept beneath my feet

And my passion has become nothing but a gallery of art

I knit a house of tears on my face like a hat sits on the head of a cowboy

I have tried to arrest ambition with words but they became thorns carved into petals of shame.

How does a man become a man?

I wove this question into the mirror and arrowed pains at the eyes of the reflection that stared back at me

I am not one to shiver

Sadly, all I do on my bed is listen to SHIBA

The world is a book

And life is her pages

I write on my skin

And you read my scars

Sometimes,

I screenshot my happiness

& stay close to the exit

For I know your stones are not far fetched

As I sit on my ass hugging the ground,

I breath the flames of frustration

Pay attention

For am not one but all

And I speak for all

My story is a sad song

A bruised note

My country is the crooner

Who turned it into a threnody

Life has scribbled Gothic poems

On the pages of my heart

The verses  steal my sleep

To become shadows on my eyes sockets

I’m a baby eagle

With ashy throat

Perched on a leafless tree

I’m at the center of a burnt marketplace

Learning to swallow a big grain of sighs

This poem smells like the undies of an abused whore

There are melodies that never reach the river bank, stuck in the barrel of a gun

Like failed ejaculation

Sadly, the shadows that visit me do not come with name-tags

So, I do not know which left its tongue in my mouth

Painfully,

I find shadows that cut themselves whispering thunders in my head

A portrait of fading memories and rotten kisses of failure.

Hello guys, it's been quite a while. I'm sorry I have been away. I have missed this great platform. Most especially you. Yes, you reading this. I won't forget to subscribe and comment on your next post. Let's start afresh.

Life is a pen and what you write with it; is entirely up to you. I crawled out of the house of pain and joy. The above poem is a sheer representation of my struggle as a writer. Not just mine but the struggles of the black people—Nigerians who are often marginalized.

Thank you very much for reading. I love you. Your comments are important to me. Do well to share your thoughts and experiences in the comment box.