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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
Yet, these foreigners won’t order
Because my blood is GREEN.
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
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
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
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.