The Painting

Time really does fly by. It’s been a busy past couple of months, and this phase will only end in June hopefully. I have neglected interactions on this platform for a minute, albeit unintentionally, it has been devastating. I didn’t have time to pull together a story this week, fortunately, I  have this poem for “writing crisis” like now.                                                                   I love all art forms and often imagine that if I had the time I would project my creativity in making paintings, so here’s a poem that’ll stir your imagination, I hope you enjoy it.  Au Revoir darlings.


A lone man’s dreams these stories

Corals of ox-blood and ultramarine.

Delicate pieces of happiness, beauty & lust

War entwined onto the canvas on the wall.


Beauty floats in a meadow of virágok

Maidens of silk ebony skin,

Their radiant eyes veiled like morning dew

with voices like canaries.

Ensnaring them are men of power

Missles fire into the air

Corrupted soil turns crimson.

Volcanos give off condensed smug




Feathered fawn, persnickety lots

A doe beside mossy greenery

Announcing it’s meek spirit

as if it were home

Wolves growl hastily at their prey

The blood moon runneth over

Flirting abstractions on tempera and pastel



The silhouette of a man

seated at a table

Elegance stares back at him

His bride by his side

Their hearts meet in the center

Knowing each other.

Finding each other

Completely free in each other.

Alas, evil stirs the ego of his brother

Consuming him, he unleashes  a wrath

Thus bringing an end  to a beautiful home

Man being his kin’s worse enemy.


Etched in brass beneath the painting;

“Her love although late, saved me,

but not before I forged a decree

and descended on the cul-de-sac to self-destruction.”


The fresco hangs haphazardly on the wall

Creating an imbalance between light and darkness.

Love and valor. Life and honor.

Archaic to the tides of change.



Virágok: origin; Hungarian, meaning; flowers

What is Your Drug?

God did not create religion. He created man, he then commanded man to multiply and fill the earth. In that very instant, he gave man a  precious gift; love, because he said; Love me, then love your brother like you would yourself. Religion is a weed sowed into man’s heart by the ruler of the world. It is a drug to many.

Why do people experience thoughts that aren’t real?  Feelings that plagues and subdues them into believing there is no escape, no better life for them until their lives end. It assumes the role of a god, but it’s just one in a plethora of worldly spirits.  Not too long ago, I had such a demon. It filled me with feebleness, told me nobody loved me, I was nothing; but by what some might call a lucky streak I received the saving grace and clung to it, albeit it wasn’t luck because that grace is abundant and available for every single person, whether they have a worldly spirit or not. Just forsake that tormenting voice of hopelessness and destruction. Find that reinvigorating grace and let it become your new addiction.

What is your drug? Is it an abusive relationship, is it grieve over a decedent, or is the fear of letting go? What will you do when you have no more tears left?

I have never learned to say goodbye. After my Grandmum’s premature demise, my family hid it from it for as long as they could. It was easier too because I was in boarding school.  Then I found out, and I was insouciant. The origin of my alexithymia, and many lonesome nights. I avoided the funeral, matter of fact, I have no clue about her final resting place. Then one night I was having a  nightmare. Or a vision, not sure, but I saw her, she came to me. I wanted to know where she was, so I asked and she told me to come to her, with her and find out. I was going to, then I got a bad feeling on getting closer. That apparition wasn’t my Grandmum, I woke up. It took a while for me to process that dream, and I still haven’t completely but I do know why it happened. I had to face the fact that she would never come to visit again, bringing toys and food, that we couldn’t stay up late in the night practicing Yoruba anymore. I had to bury her.

So you see, alcohol and oxycodone are not our only drugs of choice. It takes a lot of self-reflection. One must be willing to tear themselves apart. What we discover could shake the foundation of our identity. It’s hard but then we discover whom/what the master is. We all have one or more, even the people who think they don’t (In that case it’s probably pride).

Religion is a contentious son-of-a-bitch, imagine a scenario where you’re free from your master, and you’re running into the world, there are too many belief systems out there, all assuring you that their’s is the truth. Now you’re caught in between a rock and a hard place.  Here is where that sweet-savory graceful salvation swoops into the scene. Irrespective of religion, I chose to serve the omnipotent God.  You may take me to the Sikh’s gurdwara and I will extol him there because he alone is the plug. He has no hidden agenda.

There is no value in religion, race or human wisdom. The only valuable commodity is love. Even if we chose not to believe in anything, let’s not dismiss people because they haven’t attained similar social status as us,  or because they are freaks who have been admitted into the psych ward, once too often. They’re family. We should have compassion nevertheless for that is God’s will for us, to be addicted to the love he so richly provides to us, his people. God bless us.




Twenty-one Curses

It is Looming, like the sword of Damocles. After my post a few weeks ago regarding communications, I made some headways that shed light on my personal relationships. I had a Eureka moment, in fact, a large chunk of unprocessed memory didn’t only return, but they make sense now more than ever.

My inquisitive sister found my mum’s masters degree. The year was August 1998, which meant I was 2 years old. As a child, I recall a strong, but the unequivocal presence of my parents, ergo my mum practically raised us while my dad chased his dream, and professional success. Contrary to that, as a neonate, her presence in my life was feeble. I mostly recall my guardian, a meek tween of that era.

“What has this got to do with anything?” you may wonder. Well, last year during my internship programme, I made a friend. Anyone who knows me knows how foreign those four words are to me. We’ll call her Momo. I and Momo had a kind of bond, from the first meeting, that is uncommonly unique. Introverted as we were, with raging trust issues, we opened up about ourselves, just enough anyway. Her eyes radiated so much kindness and love, but it also unveiled grave pain. Moma is an only child, I figured she was only lonely.

She is a biologist and we both had a similar internship duration. As our programme drew to an end, Momo suffered an identity crisis. The crisis was triggered by a cascade of events that began with hallucinogen use and ended with some unresolved, suppressed memories taking center stage. Ironically, the same memories I recall now, a weak parental onus in the neonatal period.

Those few days were critical for her, as the meds needed at least a week to be potent, I dug tirelessly at my open wounds, so I could find something, anything that could retain her sanity, and perhaps my attempts were futile, but certainly, they contributed in steering her away from becoming an inpatient at the psych ward. Momo is doing much better now, and so am I.

We stumped the obstacles and moved beyond them, I’ve reflected on my life with much guidance and wisdom and reaped clarity. Unresolved matters have no hold on me anymore. I’ve dispersed all secrets and watched myself evolve from a resentful, self-doubting conch, and I owe it all to the support system I have. I have God, my loved ones, my readers, and bloggers to thank for the undefeated smile I wear on my face daily.

This post, however, is really not about me, it is for my beloved, Momo, and everyone out there who is in a constant battle with their ID. It is for those who do not want to get up from their bed in the morning and can’t sleep at night. For those who are plagued by the ghosts of what they cannot discern, and for those who, every minute they are alive is progress. I can never claim to comprehend what it feels like. This is for you. Hold steadfast, God loves you.

Like the forest before the starry night

Life pours carelessly at your feet

Yours is a gift that attracts twenty-one curses

Listen not to the echoing isolation

they shriek like maleficent lilts

An avalanche of colossal forlornness

Try as you may

Disenchantment brazes you like a whirlwind

Driving you farther from the ones that love you

Some days we’re one

The next you’re numb

A kaleidoscope of cacophony

Your willpower holds the key

It ends the cycle

To much of my pride.

Twenty-one curses are but a blessing in disguise

Reverie of an Insomniac

A shot of moonshine

Every night before bed

With Mr. Eddy or Tigger

My head rests on lilac feathers

A plethora of stars revolve my crown

picture perfect is mundane, so I’ve been told.




Too frequently  my eyes droop

So I pry them open

The night  raves by

A shot of vodka or honey

…..or whatever

I imagine counting sheeps

’till my breath steadies

yet time deepens further



The wishy-washy wondering mind takes center stage

The physicists of the relative law knew it better

The only thing standing between human

And reprogrammable telomers

Flying automobiles of the future

An overpopulated earth ‘coz liberals outlawed abortion

Remains the vitality of time

A tide that never ends



Again I’m up

A goblet of bourbon or diazepam

Whichever numbs  quicker

For  a nanosecond or a day

Letting darkness have its way

Delivering me to the gate of an unrealistic muse


Six more hours of paralysis

Just another flinching terror

disguised as pure bliss

In all this chaos I forgot to add

counting time works better than sheeps