I
Dancing on a mine field
Wanton
Flesh is willing
Soul is dying
Clutching at strands of life
Pleading
For second chances
And hands of light
Moonwalking on the sun
Flailing
The dance of death
The more the merrier, the more the fun
Look inwards
To that last glimpse of gleam
The last strand of a candle’s wick
To bring forth
And rekindle that fire, that dream
Man’s purpose through thin and thick
Pure eyes leaking raindrops
Giving life to the barren land
Of my soul
“Everything will be fine”
The intensity of her eyes
Heavenly flames
Dissolving my thoughts to pure static
“Do you notice the details in the fabric of your pain?”
She’s a reflection of God’s beauty
A paragon of effortless divinity
But she has been wounded
Torn clothes and broken wings. . .
“Help me”
This poem is a joint work of me and the insane Smallee (don’t forget to check out her blog, it’s crazy). I hope you enjoy this and share to your friends (if you are bold enough)
The X:
Day-dreaming that I’m dancing with you
. . . I’ll be your pole,
And
All you have on is a whiff of Eden’s fragrance.
You dig deep into my mind
Causing chaos
Until I’m forced to write a poem about you.
You have your own unique sensual style
You blind and you vivify
You make the front of my trousers a little tight
You can unfasten them if you like
Stay with me, spend the night.
I.
You’re sighing and you’re crying into silent salty lakes of tears
You’ve worn your heart on your sleeves for the most of many years
You’re aching and you’re shaking up the walls of futures past
Shaking up the leaves of the trees that once grew in your heart
You’re breaking and you’re paining like a tensed-up window
Laughing and crying like a pregnant widow
You’re saying it and you’re faking it – words of loss of love
Praying and failing – loss of words for love
Because your love left you long ago
When you were fast asleep
Leaving blood stains and a note. . .
This poem is dedicated to those of us that claim that they would never fall in love or that they don’t believe in romantic love. Those hopeless romantics that actually lost hope. I know I fall into this category, though. But I still dug deep to write this. Jus’ sayin’.
Enjoy. . .
One day, you will love like it is Apocalypse
And Love is the only bridge between Hell and Heaven
And the bridge is made of broomsticks
And the broomsticks are on fire
.
One day, you will love like a broken wine-glass
A memory of sweetness once contained
Now a result of shattered dreams
Yearning to be whole again
.
One day, you will love like a fifteen-minute-amnesiac
Cherishing every single special second
Knowing that your mind will break
Knowing that you will no longer know
.
The Talking Drum is quiet.
Odùduwà sheds tears,
As aga is tossed aside
As the sacred beads of adé are used as toys
As the white silk of Eyo
Is stained with the grease of Amnesia.
Sango is mute.
As the joys of oriki go unheard and untold
As the minds of his people are emptied
As they fall prey to Western rites
As they forget. . . Continue reading
Rose lips
Vanilla skin
A shadow of a shadow of her former self
Stuck between a dream and a coma
Numb skin
Yearning for a hug
“I’ve never seen someone bleeding like this
Rip out your scarf and clench your wrists”
Lost key
Her blue heart is locked Continue reading
I
You’re like a microcosm
Of sacred geometry.
Enticing curves and slopes.
In line with the alchemic maths
Of the fabled swan.
Inciting incipit breaks in the
Rhythmic progressions of
My soul.
So that the overseer
Becomes overseen.
Slowing the hands of time
To lesser whirls
Of lesser worlds
Like the viscosity
Of honey trapped
In a hollow diamond.
The pain tore through him
Causing his eyes to leak
He hit a dead end today
Full force
Without cushions or airbags.
Enough had finally become enough
And as his heart watched his mind burn,
He sat there
On the floor
Centre of the room
Feeling the scars of his past failed attempts.
The smell of dirty toilets
Told him the door was open.
He quickly locked it.
No disturbances this time.
The room was empty
Except for dirt and death
And him, of course.
But, not for long.
Setting the chair,
He tied the rope
To the place
A fan should have been.
Stupid hostel.
Students would endure the heat of the day
Only to come back to the heat of the night.
How can so much suffering
Exist
In an educational system?
With a sickening smile
That could chill a volcano,
He put the rope around his neck.
She stood still
As hot water drew lines
Down her skin
Flinching as his fingers followed
Arranging her hair
Exposing the back of her neck
She felt his breath
Hot and fresh
Causing the rogue hairs
On her neck to tingle…
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