@Tyelev 18 April 2022 more from that month

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.