People say

People said

the world is flat

has four edges and a strap

Gravity is only a myth

People say

life can exist without love

work all day and pay the bills

lest you sleep under the bridge

people say

it doesn’t matter how you lived your life

the day you die is more important

their insipid hearts glazed over

people say

work and till and earn your bills

go the streets and squander it all

all in a bid to fit right in

people say

there is only one way, ours or none

Only one god, ours or none

rebuke it and you’ll walk the plank

people say

wear mink coats and leather shoes

Your stone cold blinks must blind others

when you die, we’ll judge you still

people say

love yourself just as you are

and if you don’t, go under the knife

but when you die, we’ll judge you more

People say

all kinds of quatsch

pretend they care, yet judge all day

helping each other dig their grave.

People spend all night in the church

shake and tremble under the alter

roll around in dirt and dust

leave that place the same they went

People preach to you at end

You should live your life this way

then lock their doors and do the opposite

while you weep and wonder what’s wrong with you

People judge the dead for how they died

spit and dance on open grave

never mind the way they lived their life

then yell, I am christian.

I’ve learnt to smite what people say

their hearts overrun with wickedness and spite

smile in your face, judge behind your back

the only One to trust is Yahweh

The Gladiator

When the gates swung open

There stood a masterpiece

In the guise of an Alien

he hummed a soft hymn of hope

Tho’ the birds chirped awfully loud

he remained the center piece

lean shoulders raised proud

like a gladiator in Ancient Greece

The drums drowns out his voice

his calloused feet are weary

but this was his predestined choice

A final hurray before he was too feeble to carry

With all his might he raised his sword

like excalibur reflecting the glazing sun

That day, freedom was going to be restored

but he knew, this was not his day to win

The crowd roar louder like never before

The center piece’s hibiscus is wilting

The birds chirp louder, a warning of sorts

the sword hits the dust, the end of war.

Alas! the gates are closed

He awaits the satisfying singe of release

The gladiator’s heart is tossed aside, necrosed

brought to his knees by an unrepentant disease

Whitewash

Allow people to admire you for who you truly are, they say

and rain trickle down the grooves of your finger tip

let the mettlesome horse leave the court stables in February.

count your toxic days from incurable nights.

I say i’m not proud of the woman

my mother used to be

I hope the clogs she wore

make a different sound than the one I wear.

A black rose withers on your window pane

leaving snowy ashes on winter’s stairs

the language of my palms

is whitewashed to tell a different story from yours

When you least expect it

Light  flickers haphazadly in still abyss of darkness

You are on a train crashing into a river of eclectic changes

Deep waters stifle you until something different wipes your slate


We will rise

Above all adversities

allowing the first signs of transcension

Above the noise

That rouse pandemonium cackles

Above every defeat

Faith illuminates light on grace

Above the insecurities

standing back to back to back

Above the bullshit

Juxtaposing  non-concise cryptic messages

Above the war that fogs our mind

like the pitter-patter of rain drops

Above the pain

hidden behind every smile.

Like the morning dew vaporizes over fallen embers,

And the fish that breaks free from the current

we will rise.

Learn to shoulder on in the face of persecution

we will conquer the despair and chaos

Yes we shall.

You found me

There I was, folded up like a rag underneath rubbles and brimstone,

No hope for recovery. no life to live. bound by deception.

There I was in the lowest shelf in an antique shop, collecting dust

Who would want a broken, undone, ceramic doll?

the doorbell, clanged each time someone walked in

their shadow left behind them, barely noticing me.

There I was in a forest, look where my wanderlust has brought me

screaming at the top of my lungs, abandoned by woodland creatures

searching for a sign of light between the leaves of oak trees

nothing but darkness paving the way for more darkness.

There I was living in the mirror of my insecurities,

written off, never smart enough, not pageant worthy,

There goes the black sheep, trouble. Bad news. scurry!

near death, doubt, fear, addictions, witch.

They said, our first daughters never becomes anything meaningful

they must stay at home and take care of us in our golden years.

There I was crashing under the wave of the ocean,

heaven knows I can’t swim to save myself

But slowly your voice repeatedly whispered, “Be still”

from a mere whisper to a voice to a steady transient command;

“Be still, I’ve got you” and then you quickly added, ” It is well”

How could I have been so blind?

Obviously I have been detained by grace

For when I was barraged under rubbles,

when I was in a carton at the back of the antique shore,

You called for, and paid for me.

When I told you I’m no good with commitments.

when I denied you seventy times,

when I was roaming the wilderness of insecurities,

I was found by you.

God’s beautiful misfit

She carved her crown from a lion’s teeth

her hope was misplaced like Wendy in Neverland

Her rugged jeans never made it past her ankle

yet she shoots yellow roses out of a golden pistol

out of her muse, existed two pygmy monkeys

dangling from her ear lobes like fallen stars

not the only one she had, but the weirdest of all

She’d never get weary of those dangling pygmies

her laugh would caress the eardrum of listeners

it’d nourish the heart of believers in life

every breath she took drove her further into nolstagia

her name was like the snow, acquiesce and beautiful

she and her band of misfits

loitered the streets in search of quaint resort

like a dysfunctional family, a thorn on society’s heel

Stifling out insecurities, draped in magical colours

a pencil to her hand was like a samurai with a katana

every particle turned in one note and vibrated in synchrony

I know she’ll paint the dimension of her soul one day

for now she’s resorted to drawing a mirage of dreams

She said she couldn’t stand people,

their colour ran so bland and grey

I know she loves the flower hidden within

the little neon sign that reads, I’m a misfit too.

A poem for my beautiful misfit.

Bubbles & Sunshine

The yellow pages of life does not promise a forecast of  bubbles and sunshine. Many times we venture to different paths and end up toiling unsuccessfully. We take risks,  casting all including our soul into the wind, and still  it makes no substantial difference.

Being unsuccessful is a tedious lifestyle nobody chooses, rather it chooses many. Sometimes doing what you love combined with  maximal effort is not enough.  Often I’ve wondered if i’m really that bad a blogger, sure I can admit that I don’t pay attention to details and several times I was ready to abandon my journey  and cut my losses.

So why haven’t I vanished from the blogosphere?

Well if there is something that I’m even worse at than writing, it is quitting. Never done it. mmhmm, well maybe that one time.

But who am I kidding? The exhilaration I get when the nerve endings on my fingertips presses against the keyboard is beyond comparison —no pun intended—and I especially love making people wonder; “what the F is this post/poem about?”.

They say people won’t listen to you until you’re worth listening to, but no matter how good, bad or funny one is, determination always changes the rules of the game. Determination is what makes me a force to be reckoned with.

And art exists in every level of the ecosystem. One can ignore it, but surely can’t deny it, even the way people speak is art. If you’ve witnessed two individuals or clans from a region speaking the same language, then you understand it. Bottomline is, so I’m a bit of a messy frantic misfit, In the end, I’ll write what is good and pleasing to my heart, because what my ventricles forcefully eject through my Aorta to sustain me in the land of living, itself is Art.

And now I’m done writing.

Just kidding.

A generation lost in space

I once met a man

His silver hair made love to the scanty black

a nose like a nobleman

weary eyes lumbering the earth

with wary smile he double clicked

an apparatus with shaky hands

reminiscing on a time he wore a younger man’s face

He spoke a forgotten tongue

yet familiar tone

He came from a forgotten time

Seems like they never existed

A ghost immature in form,

opposable thumbs, human and what not;

“Ich heiße Ronald”, he says

and I remember this fleeting touch of warmth

metamorphosing man’s sanctimonious ire

before being exiled into space

exhaling star dust and matter

a paranoma of the galaxy beyond yonder

meteors too great to ignore

a black hole reducing man’s innovation to nothing

nothing but a big hole of nothingness

sapping life from beneath

They lit the light when all around is seething in blindness

and hold the peace that Boko haram seek to quench

non conforming with the ideals of millennials

nor with the charisma of Generation Z

The generation born of resilience and silence

The ones nobody listens to

They are simply a generation lost in space