Poetry Sucks!

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Wait! It’s not what you think…Don’t give me that look, just keep reading. But first, I need to know: are you in a bad mood or a good mood? If it’s the former, start with the second piece. If it’s
the latter, I, uh, I really don’t care; it’s rather open to interpretation.

Submitted: October 15, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 15, 2017



Consummately and honestly, I can never hope to tell you how much you mean to me. Every word that is exiled from my heart in search of yours through the monotone of my voice will never satisfy the need I have for it. For if I had the opportunity to house every compliment, every "I love you", every form of praise, everything that tugs at your mouth to incarnate joy, and every device that has the power to tell you how I truly feel, it would not be enough.

If I had it my way, the flowers would bloom every time you're in their presence, to remind you that you are Sunshine If I had it my way, the birds would sing your praise in coincidence with your every breath to satisfy its audience that is the air. If I had it my way, the sky would cry every day and soak you in its tears that are an expression of how beautiful you are. If I had it my way, every beat of your heart would be the birth of every song composed for your amusement. If I had it my way, the entire vocabulary, present and absent, in existence and in extinction, would rearrange itself every day to find new ways to please your ears and crack open a smile from your lips. If I had it my way, the heavens would pull out every astronomical event at their disposal, every night for your entertainment: your days would be filled with eclipses, and all the planets would be your crowd so that they would preach of seeing even but a glimpse of you. Your nights would be filled with blood moons, shooting stars and asteroids would pass so closely to the earth to allow you to espy them clearly but they wouldn't be close enough to spell any danger. Stars would have growth spurts every 12 hours and rapidly decrease their lifespans to 24 hours so that you could witness their births and deaths every night; your very own fireworks display. If I had it my way, everything natural and man-made would do your bidding and fashion itself to give pleasure to your soul. If I had it my way and all this was done to bring you happiness, I would implore the heavens in search for my Deity so that He may remake the universe and I would have a completely different set of aesthetics to please you for another eternity and inform you of my true intentions.

My way: Part 1



INTERMISSION! Is that allowed? Let me just get something straight. There’s absolutely no structure here. This is just an anthology. So there’s no reason I should be wasting your time with anything other than poetry. I should probably stop then.



















I open my eyes to the reality I once denied with every breath I had. I wish I could say denial is the reason I no longer have life in my lungs. I'm on my knees on a surface whose very sight makes my skin crawl and my flesh tear away as I succumb to torture and decay. The ominous stench of he who murdered death before me makes my senses desperately long for a whiff of something as pleasant as rotting corpses. The extent of my redemption goes as far as ascending into darkness and gouging my eyes out so I no longer have to witness the horrors before me. The kind that make you hope you were in a timeless nightmare. The only sound that graces my ears is that of the creature I cannot name, dragging its victims across the plane. I escaped its grasp but I did not escape with my life. Its presence left irremovable marks all over my body and my skin can still vividly recall its malevolent touch. I'm left but a hollow soul filled out with gaping emptiness. As I continue my unavailing elusion, I barely feel the thorns rip through my hands .The dragging sound is occasionally pierced by the screams of fresh victims coming from metres behind me. That was my last thought, an erroneous one, as he who could not be named, until now, devoured the last of my existence and my final fleeting memory was the sight of its forehead written, "Depression"




Does a way exist to herald messages to papyrus without ink? I yearn for my darkness to envelope the white paper but have it still retain its glow. How will I submit my crime to a written confession but still have it escape the prosecution's conviction? Ergo, I plead guilty to first degree murder and walk free of charge. In these times, I'm no different from an angel possessed by a demon. A stroll down the contorted lanes of my psyche would suffice to turn new-borns to the dark side as soon as they descry light from the womb and my likeness would have the devil wake up screaming from a nightmare.

My only retreat, where my mind seems to have a firm grip on lucidity is when I simulate suicide. A place where I am Achilles drowned in the waters and Superman invulnerable to kryptonite. Unfortunately, the act never gives birth to the dreams it sells to my memory and its footprints quickly vanish from the dampened cement. Would the one who holds my heart still cling to it firmly if she discovered that its colour casts a shadow on utter darkness and it pumps ash which robs one of life? Would she still entertain my love if she knew I have no heart? Where does said love originate from then?

Even when I made the sun bleed every last drop of its blood, my being remained unstained and I felt no guilt. Next I go for the moon. For he is the only witness to my unending love affair with the pure white demon.

Blank papers are demons






I close my eyes, think about my highs and my lows, the cons and the pros, my few poems and scattered flows -Some of which, no one knows. I’ve written a couple of intros; some with shallow and others with deep tones. I dunno if I should put them in columns or rows .I dunno if my punch lines are capable of delivering blow by blow .What I do know is that I write when I’m riddled with thoughts of sorrow .They make everything around me pause. Sometimes I fear if it’s just my life coming to a close because I hear screeching sounds and deep bellows. The source of which, only God knows .My heart rate increases, I gasp for air. Something of this nature is surely rare .I begin to witness the conception of a nightmare .I’m engulfed in darkness as I start to despair .I could argue that these events are unfair but from these shadows will spawn something I cannot share .When this odd gift manifests I always feel like I’m being led into a snare .The dark skies in my mind thunder and tear. Needles poke at me and the sensation is so repulsive, I could pull out my hair .I look into the distance and I’m aware in an instance that my so called brilliance won’t free me from this fix reminiscent of a hex .I’ll have to delve into a reconnaissance if I’m to release my froogle existence from this plethora of nonsense which will paradoxically give birth to magnificence. That is, If I can take the chance. I roam in this barren plain that is my psyche in hopes to obtain relief although it’s unlikely. I try to ignore the pain albeit the act frightening. I start to gain a little strength but in the grand scheme of things it seems like nothing. It seems to all be in vain, the reason I’m fighting. What if the result of all this is mundane and not even worth writing? This is the only way I can get to rhyming. Here is the only place that my words can compose themselves with perfect timing. Mentally, it inflicts an excruciating strain because it’s like I’m always running to darkness or from darkness; there is nothing shining. I go in my mind where it’s void of people but filled with screaming. There is no warmth of life with which it’s teeming. It’s hard to fathom I could even be dreaming because I can feel unseen eyes at me, constantly glaring as my light deprived eyes are seldom gifted with the strike of lightning. I long for angels singing but instead I’m never short of hearing the devil laughing. I wish the hounds that plague my mind would stop barking. Is this the price for inspiration? It’s so alarming. Finally when the skies part, I see this may have been my fault in part. I wish to abide in light even though I have a heavy heart. I long for the Lord’s love to reflect in my art but I accept not people’s affection because I’m cognizant it’s all a façade. The extent of my bitter resolve, you ask? I murdered cupid a few miles back and burned every one of his darts

Daily Nightmares: part 1
















I open my eyes as I say my goodbyes to the bloody cries in my mind. My senses silently advise my body to rise from my bed of lies. My dream relies on my physical frame’s ability to exercise its right to flee from these confines. My hope for a better tomorrow is in ties with the strength required to turn these lows into highs and escape my own demise. I look across the room as I take a deep breath. I toddle forward uncertainly wondering what’s next. Do I have what it takes to face the imminent test? Is my head still in the clouds or am I back on earth? To seal my fate, what’s going to come first? My heart is beating so fast, I feel like it could burst. For either nourishment or supplication, I hunger and thirst. I suspect this place is deserted for I do not hear a peep or a blurt. I thought I rose from my nightmare, why am I still here? I cannot hear any resonance from afar or near. Is this deafening silence something I should fear? It’s too calm, nothing of meaning seems like it will form. If a calm does indeed come before the storm. Then I’ll need to find a place of refuge for me to storm. Have I become sane, or is it still the same? It would be a shame if I lost my wits, something for which I’ve acclaimed fame. They don’t know that the shattered glass halls of the catacombs in my mind are to blame. Though my outward appearance is stable, they claim onlookers think I have no wild thoughts to tame. I conceal my madness behind a masquerade of dignity. My thought process can stretch from speeds or zero to infinity. I know not if that estimation remains within the boundary or reality. Do I compose deeply or are my words shallow pools of vanity? I could argue that no one knows the gravity of the calamity my sanity is subjected to with no shred of partiality. If what I do spew is verbal poison then I would like to retain my anonymity. This way the masses won’t realize my mind is a ruined city, a suburbia of abandoned skyscrapers, an endless supply of unwritten papers floating because they’ve never been introduced to any staplers. These buildings have no makers. Their construction is void of any labourers. There is no single aspiration this desolate location majors. No dreamers or doers, movers or shakers. It’s no different from a barren place filled with craters. No streams of hope flow beside them, from within them, no, not even hot vapours. But to let the story end this way is something I’d hate coz all this emptiness shows room for improvement. Hard work will ensure these streets will be filled with movement. This dream shows my mind can still aim to be prudent. I had seen the vacancy as a curse - I’d misconstrued it - but I cannot build upon a populated area, I’m going to prove it. To do that I’ll become my own teacher and my own number one student. If I was anyone else in this scenario I’d probably just mumble, “Screw it”. Actually, this is all I need. I’ve awoken from my nightmare into a dream. I’m going to be here for a while it seems. At least now the fabric of my reality is not bursting at the seams. Since one theoretically cannot die in one’s sleep. I will make the most of this and live out my dream.

Daily Nightmares: Part 2: Lucid Living


I wanted this to be called empty memories

It should be that way because that’s how I feel it is

I’m restless, flooded by thoughts of someone who’s rested in peace

I’m contemplating the flow of events that led up to this

I’m drowning in memories of someone my culture says I’m not supposed to miss

They say his so called existence I should just dismiss

From my mind I should just vacate his memory

But where it’s supposed to be there’s no lifespan or story

He wasn’t here for long enough to be recorded into history

There’s not one he can call his story

At least not one society says of which I should worry

When I try to imagine my time with you my thoughts become blurry

I black out and my heart and soul become weary

My eyes uncover semantic gold from which I should quarry

I don’t think this is even worth admiration or glory

It’s addressed to you and whoever decides this burden of a rant they should carry 

The number accompanying his existence is the weight of a few pounds

It’s not much but its made my heart so heavy its profound

The silence of his memory reigns supreme in my mind, so loud

They said his final resting place could not even be in the ground

His recollection has left my soul in sheets he couldn’t have, a shroud

When mother asks me why I cry I can’t deny that my tears are nigh, I can’t disguise the state my mind has been diminished to

I despise this feeling I could trade for memories I could wish, even two

I’m confined by blinds covering my eyes as I try to find where it is my turmoil lies

If I said it’s because he’s in the soil you know it would all be lies

Some place for me to visit they couldn’t make

This is the only instance that’s got me wishing I could go to the grave

He suffered a grave fate, my little mate

I stare in the grave whenever I look at his face

At least father took a photograph before he left

I wonder if he was right handed or left

All these thoughts leave me bereft

I counted the seven or so, months leading up to your arrival

The Lord counted two hours as you struggled for survival

The wave of your fate hit me like a tidal

I held my head as I tried to crush my skull

Yours and my memory bank is empty

Only both of the cries deposited in it are plenty

If I could fully account for it, it would be too messy

But when I think deeply about it

I can never really doubt it…

I’m glad no one hurt you in your time

Though I know your lungs hurt you as you cried

Our memories together are ever absent

Because of that, into sorrow or madness I slowly descend

When I write they refer to me as one of the descent

I leave my previous label of descent

As I label pages because of things past and recent

Though my time with you never started ticking

I know one day, a few million hours of worship, we’ll pitch in

You’ll thank the One responsible for pardoning you from this world’s suffering

I’ll thank Him for making sure eternal pain I did not suffer in

If you can read this somehow I hope it finds you well

I just had to write this down because my heart had begun to swell

Now I have, my thoughts can be lifted from those akin to hell

A place of serene emotion, now, I will surely dwell

I’m sad you left this earth


Empty Memories





Reality sets in and it becomes apparent that she's closer to me than she's ever been. Not just physically, as she's edging closer to my heart, but also emotionally, because she's edging closer to my heart. Into the deepest depths, where her soft and dainty touch boldly goes where no woman has gone before. It searches deeper, and it's so satisfying and at the same time frightening; for I'm becoming exposed. She curiously runs her fingers through the nether regions of my aortic pump as if looking for gold. I don't mind, she's getting closer for me to launch my own expedition. Her eyes meet mine, as they always do, but something is different. She's staring into them like they are the window to my soul and she's discovered something beyond the pane. Something obfuscating the pain. Knowing her, she'd want to peek further, or even reach out to touch it herself. I can only watch as my senses are overwhelmed and subdued, one by one, by the fragrance silently screaming from the pores of her radiant skin. All that glistens surely isn't gold. Sometimes it's either of the two fleshy protrusions around the opening of her orifice. It's a treasure of hers I'm yet to seize, softly. The moment slows down as she disarms her weapons of scrutiny in the pursuit of accepting ecstasy with the most apt reception. And so, she does. As we begin Act One, her execution spells 'dilettante with ease', moistly. She even confesses so, in an almost apologetic manner that this precedes all non-existent moments like these not realizing that I'm forever content that she's physically entrusted me with her smile's deviation before anyone else. When I look back on it, it seems as if the moment passed on too quick as we mourned it silently with shut perceivers and open lips.








I need you, you need me. We make the perfect kind of misery. I help you, you help me become the one I swore I'd never be. The one that I would never want to see.


It would've been preferable to me if every time I stood in the mirror your reflection would make an appearance. It might as well be but I see the physical patenting of my sworn adherence to you. Every act that defines my few million past steps has been carried out for your satisfaction. I've torn skin from bone with the virginity of my jangly nails to maintain the attraction between us. I've reached into many a dermis and retrieved bone with bloody force and splatter to offer to you as trophies for your mere amusement and recollection. I once feared the very sight of blood. Now, the absence of it from my once pristine hands spurs unfamiliarity. For you, I would carve the unsuspecting skulls of infants to further my bloodlust lest it be deemed infantile by your sweet and effeminate voice. You've told me, "bring me screams of the ones with the most delicate of guilt", and I've slaughtered the innocent, murderously clenching the hilt of the sword you gave me. Every one of the days I set out to show you I love you with my blood-smile, I remember the day we first met;

Father had knocked mother unconscious in one of his drunken rages and I'd had enough of it. I stopped him in his tracks and immobilised him using the closest thing I could get hold of on the kitchen counter: a butcher knife. Once his first blood spatter graced my countenance, that's when you, my love, whispered your name in my ear: MURDER.

I've been loyal to you since.


There's nothing I can say, there's nothing I can do. No matter how hard I try, I wake up next to you.

It's Complicated. A tribute to Adelitas Way’s Criticise

I looked deep into her eyes as her words drowned in my ears. The next few moments would certainly bring life to my fears. I could feel my throat dry up as I fought back my tears. The type of tears I hadn't experienced in all my years. I'd hoped by now, all my anxiety would've cleared. Clearly it hadn't and the moment of truth had neared. Would I get everything I desired or everything I feared?

It was driving me crazy, the thought of being steered away from the one thing I'd adhered to for so long. The feeling of powerlessness was so strong. I did not know whether I still belonged to this world or if my second-long trance would prolong itself. I reached for her hand as I began to understand exactly where I'd landed myself. I phased out every sound as I focused on the monotone of her voice. Even If I hadn't done that, the serenity of her eyes gave me no choice. Her words against my mind and heart, a threat they posed. At this point she was a few inches from my nose. Who knows among all her options, what she'd chose. I coiled my toes as the pace of my heartbeat rose. Behind my back, in my other hand I still held the rose. Would this chapter close with me neck deep in my woes? She was the dose of breath I needed every day lest I remain comatose with my thoughts. At first I thought I had something to prove but the current state of my mind at that time proved I'd lost my fortitude. I only had my heart to protrude. My mind had gone into a state of interlude. These events were left to be construed; the rude truth I could no longer elude. Before I could reach her hand, she reached mine. Her heart of gold reflected in her eyes, I thought I'd found the mine. The softness of her skin was too apparent for all this to just be in my mind. Her lips motioned for words, to me she inclined. Would she hide her feelings toward me in this moment or would she put me in line with my fears about to be brought to light. The strings holding up my heart at this moment were fine. If she walked away at this moment I'd never be able to say, "I'm fine". I felt the warmth of her breath as she opened her lips. What she said that moment passed my ears as I woke up and realised that I'd lost my glimpse.

Moment (Say Yes)

Just after the day's eighteenth hour, I find my five senses finally honing themselves aptly so I can have a moment of lucidity. Day 29.

I start to evaluate my own soul and its existence, allusively. Humanity is indignant towards my kinship with eerie influences. Despite that, I let their cries of blatantly misguided wariness fall on deliberately deaf ears. It's also true that I'm constantly fleeing from kindred spirits of the same shade. A fate nature ridicules me for. The clouds await my decisive descent into folly. "What a day it will be when the four walls of his dwelling finally declare him insane!" they yell. At least the trees wave their arms to try to plead the innocence of my soul. An act my own being won't resort to. It believes it knows who owns it, and no manner of trial will change the holder. At the dawn of the nineteenth year, the soul remains the same but with different stains. Whether they reek of iniquity or myrrh is solely for judgment day to reveal. Contrary to popular belief, these tutelary entities aren't attributed to the cliché "voices in my head". The voice is monotonous. I've disproved the theory of it being my conscience because its essence has both horns and a halo. The former, blood-red and the latter, blindingly bright. If it is my conscience, then it's as lost as I am - a compass with no needle. Whatever the case, its utterances, fortnightly, have me screaming mutely, "save my heavy, dirty soul". I've written this in my soul's handwriting and taught you the language. See that you do not share this knowledge that can save the world, to the world.

That would push it to fake repentance. Though I underestimate their power, for not having real substance. The falsehood of its surface is thick enough for Mother Nature to never see the light of day.

For the time being, I will wear a brave face that appears to have never seen battle. In reality, it is scarred to the bone - A mask that portrays that we don't need grace.


Who I am today is worse than other times as I renovate my disguise every sun and moon.  Death inspires me like bait inspires the fish. Maybe the time has come for me to fashion bait for death so I can breathe lifelessness into his mouth. You'll never catch me

Ode on Soul. A tribute to Twenty One Pilots



















On the eve of the day that's forgotten and swift. On the eve of the day virgin to everyone's eyes. I walk across the plain of frozen underground fires. Like any other day, on the eve of the day that is bigger than us yet will last for a second. Unbeknown to me, the morrow will not resemble any of the present's 24 hours. Behind every mask donning humanity, there is evil in one form or the other. Restricted or free, demons reside behind every one of the universe's first born sons. Their societal brightest send sacrifices of their genius into the far heavens not knowing their quest lies between their palms. They parade prominence unlike any other in the known history. All of which will be in ruin in one instant. I've been feeling it for a while now. My senses rapture every day, delivering physical ecstasy to herald that the time is nigh. Afterwards, I learned only infidels were outside of this field of knowledge and warning. Even the trees awaited, readily waving in appraisal. The clouds anticipated and arranged themselves to be seated upon. On the day, we open our eyes by compulsion as we've been taught to. We display a face that lies that it doesn't need grace. And when those who chose to receive it depart, the face of evil will run amok. The horned ones will no longer hide and will have their glory in night. The day will become night in an eye's blink and the darkness will birth horror like never before. The true reign of maleficence will grip humanity and it will be favourable to end one's life by gruesome fate. Heaven's chain will cut the moon and the devil will finally laugh uninterrupted. For the rapture will have come to pass. I'm eternally grateful I believed and was taken to refuge in the sky. If previous statement is not a product of falsehood then who is writing this record?



Ode to Rapture. A tribute to Twenty One Pilots’ Ode to sleep



Holding the key to my identity, I stare into the dark mirror and notice an entity looking back. Those eyes: dark and filled with inexplicable pain. I couldn't look away. I wanted to know more about this strange, sad being staring back at me. I reached out to the mirror, through the looking glass and I felt my fingertips lose grip of the mass of the key and I decided to step in between the thin pillars framing my reflection. My very being shook at the emotions that oozed out of me once I did so. Why did I do it? Paralyzed, I watched myself unravel. The threads of truth separated themselves from the lies that had choked me for so long. It was a painful act but also liberating.

I traded places with my mirror image. This other side was consummately similar, down to every lineage. Everything was the same, except for one thing. I held off the realization of this truth from my senses as silence hit me. No voices spoke nor did any birds sing. The only life on this other side was that of my own. I stepped outside my dwelling, still on the other side, and I took in the silence. This experience was bona fide yet I still found it hard to believe that I'd stepped into a whole new world. Could it all be my own? Still, no face had yet shown itself to me but I did not care. I was free from all the darkness and despair from the other side.

I guess I didn't need that key in the first place. I'm a diary without a lock. I just didn't bother to open it before. Here I stand now, reading each word out loud in hopes that my soul will be strengthened, shattering the silence that echoed in my ears. Am I really ready for this or am I making the biggest mistake of my life? Do I really want to know who I am? Well, there's only one way to find out. Here we go...

"Dear diary...."


The Mirror Image. Co-written by Gracious Chitenderu


I try so hard for my words to make sense as I phase through past, present and future tense and try to make my presence known.

I wasn't born with a shortage of gifts, or should I coin them 'presents'. I use them every day hence I'm the author of my own book, the excavator of my own proverbial bone.

In theory this, is the part that's supposed to give me the hook, the section that'll require me to take a closer look for I've given up every nook and cranny for these lines to come in handy. I wish I could just once write when I'm feeling dandy but there exists a recurring feeling or outlandishness.

The feeling is outstanding. It’s as if doubt, despair and darkness are continually branding me as I struggle to live in a world where the gusts of regret are fanning out the droplets of hope well nestled within my soul, as if pearled.

The trio of misfortune find their playground in my frail mind. It’s impossible for me to hide my pale hide as I contemplate the fortunate and how we don't relate.

If I was a King-piece on a board I'd be in checkmate but lately I feel like I'm a pawn of my own bored inmate of a brain.

Part 1: Mind









I find it difficult to express the source of my distress. I have no remorse nor do I feel regret for the mess I'm in. I am under duress from my own emotions; They each battle for supremacy within me with a disturbing commotion. It's a merry-go-round for my soul; I wonder to which next I'll hand over my devotion. The most powerful of them is my anger and depression. This isn't an easy confession but I just thought the masses would want to know the reason behind this profession without which, my existence has no progression. Is it sick to admit with such grit that I get jitters from the stillness of my own soul?

I gladly jump into the gaping hole in my spirit, riddled with ever-flourishing mould. I stand by and watch as the seams that hold my existence unfold, waiting for an untold story to be told. I feel my shoulder fall cold as an unknown hand puts its weight on it. I can literally feel the evil emanate straight from it. I look to my left side as I'm met with a gaping sinister smile. It’s been standing there with me all this while. The sensation it gives off makes my heart so heavy and vile. I gaze at the pile of skulls decorating the dark red arm that has my shoulder in a strong grip. It utters the word, "harm", as it moves closer to the side of my hip. My being is anything but calm as I notice the strings between my mind and soul begin to rip.

It instructs me to write and I can do nothing to fight the immense might of its resolve. Any defiance from me and I'm sure my flesh and bones would dissolve. I begin to write with this dirty conscience of mine. There is no light in sight to brighten my state of mind

Suddenly I feel serenity pierce the calamity gripping my hand. A being of undeniable and mighty glory comes to my right side to make a stand. He dons an attire blazingly white, emblazoned with gold strands and rests his wings to match as he lands. Compared to the other guy, his get up is fashionably more bland. He utters, "love" and from that moment I recognize the identity of healing. He puts his hand on my right shoulder and a feeling of indescribable strength pulsates through my veins. Over the tone of my account he reigns and I resume my dance with the pencil as I lose the chains. The bloody stains on the demon's face stretch in an uncomplimentary way as it frowns. Its grimy energy culminates over me as it battles for the crown. These two entities reign on either side of my being as the accounts from their lips I furiously write down. A dichotomy develops between my 'identities' as my surroundings are stripped of all sound. My being burns to discern the words that escape the spiritual brawl between my two sources of inspiration, as my mind is mauled from the inside. Neither of them seem to be appalled at the deterioration my psyche is subjected to, as paper becomes my shrine. All they care about is to uphold their bragging rights as they unforgivingly exploit my mind. I resign.

Part 2: Soul















The way to deal with pain isn't easy but it's pretty straightforward. The reason why you feel pain is because of people. They either hurt you or you hurt yourself. You are people, right? People didn’t hurt you overnight – unless they brought a bat to your face. It took time. And in the same way, the ''cure'' to pain is Love. How do you get love? People. When you spend time with people who love you/who you love, it can seem like a distraction or you may feel like you're pretending to smile in the moment with them. Sometimes that's certainly true but there are some people and there are some moments - a lot of them - that you can’t deny help you feel more alive than how you feel when you're alone. Being alone is nice. It's addictive. It's quiet. You don't have to explain yourself and you get tell yourself that being alone is helping. It does help, but it doesn't get us there. When we feel well enough to not be alone, what happens? We re-join society –people- and they take us the rest of the way we need to go. They help us grow. I'm willing to bet anything that without the presence of a ‘’people’’ – one or more -, you wouldn't be the same person you are right now in terms of anything pleasant. You'd be more hurt than you can imagine. Go ahead and think about who one of those people may be and why they bring a little ray of sunshine in your life. Most of the progress you've made as a person, though it's been personal growth, has been because of someone else, indirectly or directly. That means something. People are extremely flawed, sinful and destructive, and we can’t depend on them because that’s suicide, but it becomes a paradox when you realise that if you removed every person who means anything to you from your life, you'd be nowhere. Because people also happen to be the biggest source of joy in the world. So without them you'd stop in your tracks. You wouldn't and couldn't live. That's a little hard to fathom but think about it for half a second more and it'll make complete sense. Completely and utterly alone, we'd be nowhere. I'm not saying imagine being the only person on earth. No, imagine being in a world full of people but all the people you like/love are not in it. Even the ones you dislike/hate. Imagine that and you'll realise that people, as we all are, need each other. In that state, we still manage to inspire others of our kind to something more powerful than anything else- Love, and all it encompasses. That’s no fluke, nor is it clever wordplay. Without each other, we are nothing. I'm pretty sure that's an intelligent and purposeful design. Who designed this design? Who else?

Of course, I might just be jabbering nonsense. If what I’m saying is in fact nonsense, then it means you don’t need anyone and alone you’re fulfilled and whole, and the only thing you need is food and stuff. But you’ll quickly run into another problem thinking about where that food came from and where you got that stuff.

















Whoa, that wasn’t a poem! Weird.






















For Pete's sake I can't even, say, peek at what my eyes precognitively see ahead of me, nor can I hear the peep from my own lips when I momentarily leap with excitement at its peak as if I've been heaped upon with the physical refinement of joy; Such is which I look on with a naïve foy and I realize the feeling Is not coy even though it's simply and playfully an emotional super boy brought to his knees by a girl... With a heart ridiculously more valuable than all the world's pearls.

So I got to work ,my mind reverted to the coal train headed to the station, not being here would make my soul plain  as the white on the flag of the nation. The coal was burning and the steam was teeming with white excitement and my face was ready for the enlightenment that Is her.

I stopped for a moment, I took a pause, I was ready to see the performance but did I know the cause of my presence here?

In my hands I had no presents, so very clear yet I was going to see the one who calls me dear and holds me near to her heart. The very movement of her body was a work of art constantly in motion. A masterpiece without a single missing part that caused a Flurry of emotion to be invoked within me. My eyes were being provoked to keep focus on the road coz the locus of distance between me and her was shrinking, it was the stuff of instant magic, dare I say hocus pocus? It's simply tragic, I can of course! I was staring at the course of what I hoped would be my entire life ,no one forced me to clothe myself with this terribly ambitious manifestation of this heart of mine that beats for hers coz it's a proverbial gold mine, my purpose must not remain clandestine and the strings holding up my heart should never be this fine, they can break at any time because like the ones side by side with every note in the piano they dance to the tune of her existence .it's silly, I know.

I don't care though, I don't want it to be considered serious I want people to call me delirious when I break into furious discombobulated song as onlookers look on in a curious manner and notice me as the interpretation of a banner of love, of intense affection for the creamy confection that is my Truffle, the reason for my endless elation. Why do I shamelessly indulge in this pure confession, masqueraded behind the poignant discharge of confusion disguised as words that make sense of the meaningless illusion that I'm in charge of how my heart beats.

I will rise to formerly impossible feats of the expression of this pure and seemingly infinitive gust of affection; the emotion they call love. To this "pure" feeling, the only cure is her as She stands constantly in the midst of overwhelming allure


"Pure" Affectionate expression for "Her"















I gave up that life, or rather, I stabbed it away when the infamous 'Sylar' unwelcomely graced the welcome mat at our doorstep. The serial killer who'd gotten his plaudits for staying true to the myth of his immortality and sawing his victims' skulls with an unknown medium inflicted horizontally above the eyes and just below the hairline. It was as if I'd played a game of Dice with the universe and it'd rolled both sixes! I imagine that's the highest level of accomplishment in that game. As soon as he entered our midst, he smiled and it didn't take much else for my adrenal glands to start pumping for fight or flight! In a shave of a millisecond, the choice was Fight! Or rather, kill, in the most prejudiced manner .I leaped at him, at mercurial speed and herculean strength. With a knife in my hand, I thrust forth, straight into his heart. If he weren't wearing black, I would've seen that sight of blood I so cowardly fear. Unfortunately for me, he wasn't up for dying just yet. In a miraculous manner, he kept moving as if there wasn't a six inch breach in his aortic pump. Determined to be the protector of my family, I pushed my own limits and stabbed him more and more with a different set and number of sharp instruments. It wasn't long until he was stapled to the ground. As each moment passed and my way of handling the situation became bloodier, I kept stabbing his life, and my guilt, away. "He is a serial killer ".  That's the thin veil I used to justify this act.

On the normal "mauling scale", he'd been impaled, but his eyes had more life than mine did. It scared me half to death. It was then that I pushed the last domino of innocence that remained in my soul; I had proof of the myth now. He WAS immortal. I couldn't have him escape my extreme citizen's arrest. If he couldn't die, what other secret might he be harbouring? With the vision of provision for my own life, I pulled the knife out of his chest and his blood spewed out all over. He muttered empty words as I carved his skull open. The next part of his body I caved in was his chest cavity. One cannot live without heart, so I pulled his out with my bare hands. At that moment, the weightless words he'd last uttered suddenly gained gravity in my mind: I'm not Sylar























It's 4am and I hear the alarm bells ringing in my mind as I realize I might just give way to insanity. I've found it suitable to converse with the visual imprint of my late brother, realizing I've been up all night. At this point, I'm glad I'm not one of those who follow their dreams. For my dreams are enveloped in blood every time they take root in my consciousness. Maybe I should be grateful to Insomnia. My fixation with her just might scare her off though, so it's important I maintain my manly aloofness so she doesn't feel asphyxiated. I know I'm frightened but I can't uproot the source. My heart is screaming for sweet release as it struggles to escape my chest. Maybe he knows what's about to happen. It would be better for him if he were not here when I finally do the unthinkable, which has glazed the blades of my mind since birth. If there was another route, I would carve it myself but going to where my kin is may be the only way I pull my wits back in place as I contemplate his empty memories. Time moves slow; I stand in place, facing my tomb and clinching to the dagger that will lead me into it after it follows the air straight through my head. I haven't clung to it in many moons and I know it has grown rusty in memory of my teasing stroke. "You used to let me taste the blood of your despair religiously, now you only want me so that I put you out of your misery". I cannot appease the dagger with anything less than the sight of gruesome candour. I know if I do this, I shall leave the streets crowded with cowards disguised as men. But the choice is clear to me, he must be pleased.

So I give in to the dagger as I thrust him in the middle of my brain. Blood gushes out in black, in sequence and in shapes of the alphabet then smears itself on the surface of the white tomb effortlessly decorated with horizontal lineage. The dagger bellows, dripping in inky blood," Thank you for your candour"





My heart beats in manner of requiem for the lost. Ironically, I'm one of them. I'm on a stretching, lonely path and the only light for miles is the little white reflection of the only light for miles, far ahead of me.

Part of me floats around with the idea of the light being the end of this path. The other is weighed down by anxiety of what could be on the other side. Nonetheless, the current darkness I abide in does not sit well with my soul and so I must walk to the sight of illumination. The blackness is so dense, I can almost feel it reaching out from all angles to caress me. As I get closer, I realize, the light is a doorway. Strangely, the air becomes thinner as I step through the door to nowhere and on the other side it's brighter than white. I'm met by a woman; the likes of which my weapons of scrutiny have never swung at in all my years. Emblazoned in her red dress, she meets me with a warm looking embrace, cold to the touch and her deeply crimson lips kiss me on the left side of my chest. Suddenly, my white shirt dampens with blood and with it, my last memories of earth flood back - Death

The least I could do is let my heartbeat eulogize for myself since no one else mourned for me. I was met with a gruesomely beautiful end: her. I should've noticed that her dress was the compilation of deceased rotten skin, coloured to fit her desire for blood.

Her lips were the result of kissing hearts on the surface, robbing them of their rhythmic movement since the beginning of time. The deadly temptress. Her entire existence from the womb, has been to lure those with life to the tomb. She lusts after their breath with a fatal eroticism. I feel the bloodstain from her kiss drip down to my soul and she asks for one last embrace on the lips, so I concede.





I can feel the shadow creeping in my mind. I can see the battle well within sight. I can hear the deafening echoes clearly in these ears of mine. Echoes of the screams buried deep inside. Screams I know will burst forth in a matter of time. No one can help me cast these fears aside so within my own shattered soul I abide. I fall into the deep chasm, my inner self in confines. I reflect back on things past as I stare at my reflection in my own pool of blood; so fast It gushes out. I open my mouth, words try to come out but nothing is heard as a result. Only the tumult in my psyche lets out a disturbing rout. It’s clear now, it’s not just the sounds. My phobia is real now, it’s so profound. The monster inside prepares to get out. I can hear its shouts so loud. I see its appearance behind my reflection, its eyes let off a menacing glow. Filled with the ugliest of emotions, the extent of which, only God knows. It’s at home in the dark, its teeth are razor sharp and the tips of its fingers are piercingly pointed. After one of its brutal attacks, the tips become jagged. It possesses freakish might. It stands at a towering height. Height which would leave most cowering in fright. My trance is broken as I hold on to my last moments of sanity. Knowing soon my fate will have me wishing for insanity. My condition worsens, I can feel the burns. Whether it’s from the inside or the outside, the feeling I cannot discern. From sanity to madness I slowly turn. The vastness of humility I never possessed, I desperately yearn. If I had even an ounce of love, it would’ve nullified some of the hate about to grip me as I contemplate my appalling fate. Whether I deserve this or not isn’t up for debate for my transgressions comes this punishment, so great. But still, I wish some of the pain I could alleviate. If I’d taken heed, some of the strain I could mitigate. To the obvious signs I was oblivious. Now I must face the wrath equal to staring in the face of Prometheus. I realize the immediate cause for my demise is not in disguise. I will look to the skies as if that’s where my relief lies but I come to despise the naiveté forming ties with my mind, creating lies leaving me no valid solution for me to hypothesize and so my old self dies, the state of my good fortune is left capsized as the creature inside does nothing but capitalize and you realize I may have been demonized, and the time for the beast to terrorize has arrived. Nothing from its old shell still binds - the person who had it inside did not survive. The monster emerges with aversion in its eyes. It stands tall, from now on it will never fall and it prepares to roar. The heights of its intentions will soar, high above the old body that still lies on the floor.

But to this monster there is more than meets the eye. Do you know what it’s here for? It’s the realization of the former’s soul. It’s the expression of its deep core. An impression of its intention you’re still yet to form. The only thing it’s guilty of is discarding the shell of a body that was filed with scorn. That body was inconsequential and so it had to be torn. The “It” closes the door, drags a chair across the floor, stares at something to adore; a pencil, not a sword and it sits down at a table. Its mind becomes stable. These civil acts make “it” a “he” and it rejects the monstrous identity once fabled. He becomes enabled and by his new found tools he can make the rules and humanity may look at his work as they would jewels. He will look to words as his mule as they fuel his desire to spew inspiration that won’t expire but will cause one to admire the hot flows that will descend as fires from the sky above us. All he requires is a sheet with immeasurable quires. His eyes glow, only because of the emotions inflicted upon him by the world; they themselves are white as snow. He is at home in the dark because it is there where his creativity lest off a brighter spark. His teeth are said to be razor sharp as a result of grinding all day on the verses that flicker about on his tongue like a melodious harp. The pencils constantly at his fingertips are sharpened all day, as they go down furiously on the paper in no imitable way. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword. His sharp mind exercises its strength through his written thoughts.






Please let me use this array of words jumbled together as I struggle to strangle meaning out of it to the best of my ability. I couldn't kill time without wounding eternity, smashing my wristwatch watch to the ground would only get my hand dirty.

But if it was wounded would we live through it and claim to be clear of all iniquity? Time is so cold yet I can't freeze it to my own aptitude. Maybe that's the result of my own hot attitude. I'm trying to conclude my rant yet I find myself trapped in the same writing mood. The alteration of my reality still has not gained gravity in mind. The perplexity of these current events hinder me from retreating to my inner tomb filled with vanity. For what I've attained, many only envy. The times in which I thought it impossible are quite plenty. For others this is the stuff of dreams, for me it's the very fabric of my reality sewn together at the seams. The feeling of immeasurable euphoria hasn't sunk in yet. Whether it reflects how shallow my being is, I don't know yet. I can count twenty-three days before we met .That many days back, the fibre of my being was somewhat unkempt. I was in a constant cycle of regret. These are the instances I can never forget. I don't know if anyone can relate or try to debate on understanding the complexity of my fate. This is my mind trying to make sense of what my heart feels, it's so strange. If the Lord hadn't gotten to me by now, with the devil I would've made many deals; my soul in exchange. I pray for my daily bread, the meals that give the conductor of my train of thought a durable range. Through my infinitive memories I backtrack as my failures and lapses try their best to attack the expedition my mind's eye has set on, lest it be called my mind's lie. It is true that lies form a dense web in my subconscious. It is a lie that the truth undisputedly reigns supreme on my lips when I'm conscious. My brain excitedly launches at every opportunity to fib. Especially when faced with challenge from the ones made from my own gender's rib. My mind has not caught up with the occurrences brought up by my obsessive, compulsive propensity to linguistically appropriate and give life to the meaning let off by every beat of this heart of mine. Before this started, I was faced with a decision to uncover my raw heart's roar or wait for more time. I used the time I had at that point to jot down line after line, as my heart's desire cried out for expression.

It, itself, did not fear rejection. My mind was in control of my words but it only heard these because they were being spurred by my heart. Between them there seemed to be no relation. I found myself confessing my feelings, a decision which has led me to clear and piercing elation. I cannot explain how I feel in completion for that would require a canvas with endless notation. Because my Psyche doesn't run out of words to speak They themselves come as continuously as my heart's beat. To express this feeling is to degrade its purity for it has to be translated onto a medium riddled with expendability. Redemption I seek. Something pure and lasting I may reach or have already reached for I feel that my being has been breached to the point where my mind cannot teach my fingers to lyrically preach to the congregation that is my paper, lightened as if bleached. I feel my heart leech off my soul as it attempts to retrieve the strength it needs to love lest I bereave. I concede

Raw (roar)










My existence screams onto the scene, in a shrill voice as I sit on the floor, at the edge of my bed with countless thoughts running through my head.

The only light in the room is the white from my eyes, which I bet, soon, will fade to black. My coiled frame casts a shadow so conspicuous, it stands out from the darkness.

I'm here because I've lost the will. Not the will to live, for I still breathe as furiously as I have all my life, selfishly consuming everyone else's oxygen into a body with no purpose. The will I've lost is an indescribable one. The previous statement stands as a paradox looked down upon by the very reason this literation is in existence; to describe the lost will.

The reason I am and the purpose for which I cannot be have reached an impasse. I'm at a crossroads where all included paths lead up to a dead end.

I wander about aimlessly searching for a compass that has real direction. Mere characters on all the other ones I've come across have proved to all be of misdirection.

Knowing where north is will not bring back the spark my soul once possessed. The only string that holds me to this world is the holder of the love to whom I professed.









As I come to, I glare unfailingly at the blank ceiling with a blank stare, my thoughts race at Mach 2 and meet my emotions so they can surface from my sea of tears and gasp for air. I'm trying to discern what it is I feel. Usually, the identity of the emotion reads, "despair ". I lie there listening to my soul let out vague screams that disturb the still waters of my mind. My voiceless thoughts faintly echo back at the screams and feign concern for my heart caught in between the symphony of entropy. My heart becomes the playground for everything that comes out of my mind and soul, good or bad, gold or coal, it facilitates all that burst through its gates. I spend countless hours pouring my heart out, I pray the Lord let this cup pass from me for it's not enough to hold everything that gushes out. It passes in no time as I phase through a mixture of emotion & thought waiting for another cup to arrive and it does in the nick of time. If I had a nickel for every time I wished for a nickel to come hand in hand with these cups that fill up with my pain, I'd have enough nickels to displace that pain and give the interchanging cups weight enough to smash through several window panes. Oddly enough, the sight of broken glass would remind me of my own shattered resolve for existence and I'd have a place to call home for an instance. Just because of the common ground. I still have enough common sense to write at my happiness's expense and feel proud still.

I'll end with a confession: I'm an emotional masochist, but I look forward to the day I prefer felicity's kiss to the malevolent signature left every time I grace the paper by my unfailingly hubris







I still remember when I was "normal". When I succumbed to the societal norms every other teenager is enslaved to if they do or don't have the resources and parlance required .These resources? Money; the world's operating system. Coincidentally, it also fills in the communication barrier, for money speaks in every language. If one does not have these demons that do nothing but enslave, one will be Poverty's servant - its advocate. So from birth, in this respect, one has to choose which path he will take or be crowned forcibly to tread upon and be its crier. And so from birth, it's either money or lack thereof. This is in homage to the former.


From a tender age, the educational institution: That being the foundation of all the suffering that ensues afterwards; your intelligence is measured and judged upon by a group of individuals, most of whom are in said current state because the same institution decided that the highest honour they would embody be teacher or invigilator. The Irony! After that follows a career path swayed into by the damned institution, convention or what can only be described by a single phrase: " I had no choice " The trail is bloodied with money problems, mortgage payments, rent, loans, debts, marriage, births, deaths and everything in between . Whether you like it or not, the moment you decide to " stay in school ", like pop culture so blatantly exhorts across it's mediums nowadays, you shackle up to getting jobs – self-sufficiency - which so easily and most times unintentionally becomes sufficiency for others, and you begin to live merely for survival and hiss to yourself that suicide is the coward's trail yet you are slowly and more agonizingly robbing yourself of life because you don't possess enough wealth or you require more. And if the grim reaper does not have mercy on you on one of the 6 days a week you go to your place of employment, you'll grow old, get a meagre pension(if you're fortunate) and only be granted this mercy when you've withered and are utterly alone. As for now you bravely fight, hoping to someday gain the upper hand over your riches and reach a point where they exceed their requisite. A losing battle. Ironically, when you do, you either continue the fight or begin going backwards before they inevitably run out.

The picture is painted before you vividly enough to induce blindness yet you do not see, you concede.




















In the cold, outside, I write my heart and start the ceremony which has falsely preserved me thus far. Many symbols wish to escape the pseudonymous member that never rests beneath my nose and bring my act to a close; uncovering my masquerade of lies. Their very existence is a testament of truth. On them, you will find no grey shades; only black and white. For they come from the lifeless dungeon that gives me breath. A breath whose closest companion is the sole slither of false witness, hither and thither.

In the cold, at night, I look for something – a fire – to warm my body. A body that houses a soul that prays it won’t have to make the former- its future former-landlord - jealous. It searches for The Sun but not the fire. At least that’s what I hope is its true desire. For it has remained in stasis, tirelessly looking for any and every distraction to occupy its purpose. On the basis of free will, It preaches countless nights of self-awareness and merriment, condemning the preacher for trying to make these a shadow of its current self. It moans and groans of false freedom that knows no bounds, but also knows no campus. Its moral campus is always spinning, its footsteps marked with sinning. Tracks no one will commemorate after life. Yet it proclaims, ‘’I am free! I have no strings on me! ‘’ and lives a life – a lie – like there is no Deity. A puppet to misdirection. It knows for sure that one day it came to be but it didn’t come to stay. It knows for sure that that’s supposed to mean something to me but it chooses to lure me into a false sense of maturity, in lieu of truth – the real freedom. It avoids the way, on the path of the blind. It wards off the truth, living a lie, in fear of dying, pretending as if it never will. Why?

In the cold, at break of light, I keep writing but the weather knows, all too well, the measure of its might and it unapologetically stings. I sting back with the pen, put my gloves on and continue forth. It stings again, threatening to put my smoking gun to an end. Perhaps I’m being overly dramatic. I yield, but not before the gun smokes a last time, through my hands; I set my gloves on fire and manage to write one more line – I concede























Your beauty suffices to make the sun doubt that it brings forth light.

Natural creativity coincided all its abilities when you were born and the whole concept of colour shies away, in irrelevance, when you speak.

Do not even your own eyes wish they could always stare at you, day by day and not just in the reflection?

The mirror itself would choose you to be the only thing that fades not, away from its sight for all eternity.

Does the sun not run after the stars, the moon and the night sky, never catching up, that it may say it caught a glimpse of sleeping beauty?

Do the stars and the moon not wish to share the same space as the sun that they may see you when you explode with life during the day, going about your activities?

The ground cries out boastfully for being able to be the one you tread upon and it makes a museum for every one of your footprints.

And you certainly need not ask me if I envy the air for always being able to touch you.

You can be sure as time itself that I covet the aura of your existence for being able to hear you, see you, feel you, smell you and taste you every day.

To merely descry your countenance and be able to bring life to it with my words, my touch and my presence would be enough to be my meaning of life.

My soul appreciates the love you have in your heart, the strength you have in your spirit, the beauty that is conveyed by every inch of your physical representation, the life that bursts forth from your soul and the versatility of your mind. All aspects that make up who you are bear witness to my love.

I envy everything that you love about me for each of it has the manifestation of your heart.


Every moment that fails to preach of your contentment is every moment that has succeeded in testifying of your sorrow, which I wish was not part of your existence.

Expel all the feelings which you do not wish to feel and throw them in the hole my love dug in order to express its depth; they will never stop falling


My way: Part 2: Fallen
















He knelt there, exhausted from walking. He felt like he was on the brink of either death or madness. Whatever it was going to be, a part of him hoped he’d finally be free if he gave in.

‘’I can’t go on. I’m too tired’’

But before he shattered his resolve completely, he felt her warm hand lay on his right shoulder.

‘’Don’t worry’’

He remained motionless. She spoke again in her flawless voice. One that always got him through any and everything he’d faced so far.

‘’I’ll help you. Get up. ‘’

‘’I’ll always be here’’. When he heard her say these words, he smiled, softly uttered, ‘’thank you’’, and got up immediately.

With her hand still on his shoulder, she responded as she always did. ‘’No need to thank me. I love you’’. These were the words his soul never tired to hear. It insatiably yearned for them just as his body did for her. He felt his strength return, slowly but surely. And as he was on the edge of moving his leg to take the next step, he heard a sound. It sounded like a fist hitting a wall with all its might, along with an unseemly splatter. His eyes widened with fear and the most crushing of realisations. There was a blinding light and the silhouette of his dark figure had an arm forcibly going clean through it. He reactively jerked forward and violently arched his back

He turned around, to convince his mind what his body had already inferred. And as he laid his eyes on the assailant who’d rendered his entire body - especially his chest - numb, a tear streamed down his dry cheek. He looked forward again and tilted his head down to decipher the reason behind the actual, piercing hollowness in his body. His heart beat as loud and as fast as it ever had. It was so brash, he was convinced the sound would deafen him. Along with this, he felt a gory wetness engulf the front of his clothing and run down his lean abdomen.

A little space away from his body, he could hear some indistinct liquid make contact with the ground. Drops of it flooded the floor of his toes and he was almost certain the same, thick liquid had spattered on his cheek. That single drop mixed in agony with his tears and produced a faint, reddish colour. It took a moment for his cognizance to finally awaken to the reality before his eyes. Right there, a hand covered in blood held his beating heart a few inches from where it once was.

The hand tightened its grip on his heart, like it would never let go. It reacted by gushing out its chunky, deep-red contents. He’d never seen so much blood, with that stinging of a colour, and it was all oozing from him! The tear drop that had left his arid, left eye ended its journey when it joined the blood wrapping itself around the arm that had surged dispassionately through his chest. The loneliest and faintest of breaths escaped his mouth and with the final sensation of a broken heart, he moved no more.











Thank you for reading. Come by again any time. Just call first, okay? Don’t be rude.






















Original cover art by Kudakwashe Rwizi

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