God’s Favourite Piece

What does it feel like to fall in love with a poet?
It’s confusing, it’s being unsure of what is actually real and what is mere poetry
It’s being told about how your lips feel like God’s airbrush as he paints his favourite image – which is you by the way
It’s waking up to poems about how the contour of your body when you sleep is like the lines on the face of the moon
What does it feel like to fall in love with a poet?
It’s doubting every word they say, “maybe this too is a lie”
When they swear that the first day they locked eyes with you, their belly ruffled, not from a runny stomach, but from the number of butterflies that filled it up in an instant
How time stood still, but their heart couldn’t stop thumping with all the vigor and speed it could muster
Falling in love with a poet is beautiful, it’s ethereal
It’s letting the pheromones wash your brain and leave your mouth gaping for lack of words
I know this for a fact because that’s exactly how I feel everytime I look at you
Only, you’re not a poet, you’re the poem, God’s favourite piece.
What does it feel like to fall in love with a poet?

Ideation, Grief and Beauty

How do you do it – do this?
Be so perfect at living, at being, at being alive?
I see you smile on days your eyes tell different tales
When your skin swears and cusses and screams its tiredness?
How do you do this? Be this amazing?
At what point in your creation were you made this beautiful?
And not just what your face looks like, but what your heart feels like
Like the last drop of Caprisun, like angel petals
I saw you the other day in your element
Watching a video on your phone when you had just heard the worst news
Laughing like it was your last chance to ever be happy
Gleaming like a candle lit in hades
I saw you, with such splendor and calm
Without a care in the world, without any bother at all
And I prayed a little that you never lose that – your soul
Because in that moment, even now, you’re the most beautiful thing God ever created
How do you do that?

My First Bal

Losing belly fat is one of the most difficult things to do.
I know that’s a weird way to start up a note for you
But nothing about our relationship has ever been normal.
Nothing about either of us is.
You are the highlight to my full glam
– I sometimes could go out without you, but I never really am complete then.
It’s like the synonym of love – this feeling I have for you.
I know it’s not love because it’s something much deeper.
You are like a secret between God, the devil and the dead
I could never figure you out
But I could never stop being fascinated by your splendor
And all that you are – or are meant to be.
I am belly fat, you are belly.
And losing belly fat is one of the most difficult things in life.
So maybe we should just enjoy the ride.
It isn’t so bad afterall.

MMXX

An ode to a heartbreak, one you should have seen coming
Yet you got blinded by the fables of hope, of belief, of loving
They say love is how much you’re willing to give up for a person, in sickness and health.
And you gave up, a lot, including yourself.
It’s an ode to a heartbreak, a pretty much foreseen one
That left you in the trenches of depression, with no more strength to mourn
You’ve always been one with tough skin, ready to bear the worst
But the heart muscle was not built to stretch, unless it is sick – just like yours.
This is an ode to a heartbreak, your heartbreak
And one that occurred for far too long, repeatedly, more than you could take
Affliction shall not arise a second time. Affliction shall not arise a second time.
But what happens when everyday for a year, a new hurt for you is designed?
You had never been one to have plans in life – you staggered through most of it.
But this one time, you believed it would end well, you won’t be shattered like your last relationship.
And to be fair, it was nothing like that – only worse.
Leaving your heart with more scars than your skin when you have it cut.
You were taught in school that snakes only hiss and never speak
So when you were met with a python that said “hello my world” you could not recognize it
Or decode how it entwined itself so much in your life, you couldn’t function without it.
And you were always one bent on having labels, yet fell for someone without strings.
This is an ode to a heartbreak, with a pain that only but tore you apart
With darkness worse than death, and tears enough to fill the hole in your heart.
This is an ode to 2020, a year filled with more brokenness than breath
Housing Satan’s evil chuckle, with the worst kinds of despair and death
This is an ode to all the tears you shed this year, you made it out alive.
And if noone mentioned it the past 365 days, you came out of it beautiful in your stride.
This is an ode to your strength, here’s to hoping we never have to muster that much again, or suffer same fears.
This is an ode to my love for you, and the hope that we live through the next year.
This is an ode to your survival.

Passions Against Christ

Another Christmas, but it’s far from merry

Difficult to be when you’re only mentioned in the dark

A celebration I should be a part of, or at least mentioned in

Has been put above the reach of my soul and my heart

Shh, the night should be silent

Ouu, the savior of the world is born tonight

Let the world come to a standstill because of its “savior’s” birth

The people that walk in darkness shall see a great light

But how can a light be seen without a spark?

How would you get the seas if there were no rivers?

See, as important as Jesus is, so was John the Baptist

If I didn’t come first, how would the world be delivered?

Oh, he must be special, because he came to die

But I too was beheaded, with no hope for resurrection

Born a few months before, but asked to mature with such speed

While he took his time to announce his “glorious” intentions

John is a lot like me, the forgotten string of the guitar

Bringing stability and completion, but never the glitter

I too came before, preparing several ways

And was tossed aside at the end, my great memories erased

I am Lucifer, God’s bright and morning star

But you call me Beelzebub, certain I originated from sin

See, that same Jesus you call your master and lord

When he was in heaven, I too was with him

“Here comes Satan and his demons, he must be jealous of Christ”

When I, like Judas, have had my story riddled with lies

See, he sold Jesus, certain he wouldn’t let himself be captured

But the shepherd let down his sheep despite the great powers Judas was assured

I am not the author of evil, I am just like you

Your family calls you the dark sheep, because you’re misunderstood

See, we are alike, for all have sinned

My transgression is not much different from that of human beings

But alas I have been damned, for no real cause

My greatest ever sin was questioning my boss

Banished from my home, cast away like a slave

I was sent down – just like your Jesus – but with no hopes to be saved

Why do you all deserve a second chance, but not ol’ me?

I too deserve a place at repentance, it’s only right you agree.

Why do you all deserve a second chance, but not ol’ me?

I too deserve a place at repentance, it’s only right you agree.

Construed Tics and Tocs

What is the value of eternity?
Is there a price to pay for time?
Desperate for the chance to see you smile again
Would an offer of my life be enough?
Who has the cell number of posterity?
How do I call her to bear me witness?
I swore an oath to Kronos to keep his biddings
But let the sands slip through my fingers in the heat of chaos
Friendships are worth the measure of time spent
The quality of memories created, the strength of the bonds formed
So the best friendships should last several lifetimes
Yet, here I am estranged by only thing I could call my own
At what point is the end of a circle, what is the dimension of time?
How is eternity valued?
Staring at shooting stars with my soulmate
Alas, it was dead, just like our love was.

Satirical Balladry

Poetry is funny.
How it is a jumble of words.
An attempt by a person to sound deep.
To convey an emotion the audience never felt.
Poetry is a lie.
It’s you swearing you can read the meaning behind a line.
“My calyces – which are my eyes – blossomed in eternal praise.
The first day my heart spoke your name”.
Poetry is weird.
How a young girl writing her suicide note and someone commenting on how beautiful it is.
It’s rebellion, love, anguish, creativity.
Turning humour into a food for thought.
Poetry is for losers.
And boring people – or at least that’s what you say.
Why is the smell of the rain singing lyrics to your ex’s heart rhythm?
That makes no sense.
Poetry is really funny.
But my life isn’t.
Poetry is dumb, and so am I.
So it’s a wonder how this is a wonder to you.
My poems are shitty.
A constellation of penned down reasons I give myself to survive the next day.
Poetry is hilarious.
I hope to one day find a reason to laugh as well.

Tethered Pain

Do you need to be in fire to know it’s hot?
How close do you have to get to feel its heat?
It took getting doused to understand your tears.
To be able to truly recognize the culprit.
Your lips always formed smiles that your eyes never seemed to believe.
I convinced myself your previous pains had scarred out the gleam.
Last night, my chest bled from the same spot you had been stabbed.
And the my heart’s rhythm was a chant of the anguish your soul had seen.
Last night, I, like you, experienced my guardian angel join forces with my demons.
The skies betrayed me as they bantered my already soaked sheets.
My knees were swept by the wind of anguish.
And my gut stuck in my throat, blocking out my shrieks.
I haven’t decided yet if this is an apology or not.
But I admit to recognizing the bruises on your hands now.
I was so close all this while, but could never really tell.
Maybe to understand Satan, you need to go through hell.
Do you need to be in fire to know it’s hot?
How close do you have to get to feel its heat?
Your shattered heart accused me of murder as I held it in my hands.
And watched your death get avenged, as I was the culprit.

Celestial Pleasure

“The moon is beautiful”
But for how long?
He always hated making commitments,
Yet, somehow, he kept making promises he couldn’t keep
“The moon will always be beautiful,
Even on days when it rains so hard and the clouds cover it up
Even when the sun – a brighter and hotter body – rises from the ground
I will always find the moon beautiful
You don’t need to always look at something to find it beautiful
Because it just is –
And just because it is out of sight for a moment doesn’t make it stop.”
His words always seemed convincing
And as much as he meant every single turn of phrase,
She knew whether or not he meant to, he would hurt her again
The moon is beautiful, but your inconsistency proves otherwise”
The moon was a metaphor for her, and its apparent beauty, a euphemism of his love
He always hated making commitments,
But he was prepared to commit this one time
The moon being beautiful is the hill he was willing to die on
But these days, all she had become was a level ground.

Paraesthesia

I don’t feel good enough anymore.

Almost like the world has moved on past me.

My mind no longer has the capacity to travel through space and engage itself in the thought process behind the birth of galaxies.

My mouth no longer opens in awe at the wisdom I could speak.

My eyes are now blinded to experiencing the magic of love, of hope, of life.

It’s like death, only with more entropy and no burial eulogies.

My bed, unlike me, has forgotten what it feels like to be alone.

And somehow, I’ve been too battered to consider leaving it.
Just like I was in my last relationship.

I don’t feel anymore.

Almost like the world has left me to my demons.

Demons I wish could still torment me.

These days, all I feel is nothing.

These days…

Risen For The Season

Body, soul and heart
A constellation of humanity
The aggregation of God’s disgust to sin
Me.
Forehead, chest, left, right shoulder
The sign of the cross
A symbol of remembrance of resurrection
Jesus.
Perfect from before the start
God pierced in his side and also his heart
Put on a tree to cross out sin cos of us
The irony of having to die to secure life.
Friday, Saturday, Sunday
The three days it took to defeat sin and the grave
When all of heaven and earth and hell stood still
God too understood what it meant to cry.
Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani
Forsaken by the very one who sent him to die
Beaten within an inch of his everlasting life
Stripped of the same breath he breathed into man at the beginning.
Easter, the bread of life comes alive
A reminder of God’s amnesia to man’s sins
It is finished – the declaration of forgiveness of a prodigal son by his father
Go and sin no more.
Forehead, chest, left, right shoulder
The sign of how much it took to obtain freedom
A symbol of the hurt he felt in his spirit
Jesus.
Body, soul and heart
All which are now made whole by his blood
The proof that God can love humanity again
Me.

Solar Confessions

The sun, even as bright as it is, has a halo.
Much like you did the first day my eyes were locked with yours.
It’s a miracle, like magic.
Not in the sense of being fake, instead alluring.
You, much like my best daydream.
You, a lot like the first item on my bucket list.
You, with the capacity to knock the wind off my chest.
You are magical.
With the ability to saw me in half and still leave me smiling.
With the power to attach each piece of my broken heart into something beautiful.
Much like you, all powerful.
You see, you somehow made me magic too.

Sleep Deprived

What does failure feel like?
How does regret taste on the tongue?
At what moment do you feel the downcast swell in your belly?
What is the maximum dosage for pain?
When can your heart no longer bear the hurt?
How fast can you get dehydrated from crying?
These are the questions that run through my mind
While my eyes get stuck ajar all night
I despise the smell of petrichor on my bed
The rain has left my cheeks soaked again
I’m drowning from the hurt I feel in my head
This anguish is driving me insane
See, depression is not merely a feeling
It’s a sickness that hurts from within
Insomnia has gotten its claws round my neck
So I nicked my carotid and loved the feeling
They say death is not the end to pain
Yet I can palpate the serotonin rush in my brain
Alive, I was starved of sleep
But in death, I shall never suffer from insomnia again.

Hell’s Tapestry

At what point does it become too much?
Falling in love, that is
When does it all become a little boring?
What is the count on these things?
A few months ago, I promised myself I was done with romance
My heart had gotten broken for the last time
Cupid would never catch me unguarded anymore
I closed my heart’s doors and window blinds
But what do you do when you experience perfection?
Is it possible to stare at heaven and look away?
Further proof that the world is out to get me
Having my breath taken away by the world’s first wonder
You – the first time my eyes were blessed by the reflection of light against your face
I cussed beneath my breath, grabbed cupid by the throat and slammed him on the floor
I could not believe he had got me again, so easily
And all it took was for you to relax the Velcro of your lips in my direction
I pride myself in being a wordsmith
But the constellation of characters in my vocabulary became water heated beyond its boiling point and vanished into thin air when I attempted to speak
Love is a charade, love is a charade, and I’ve convinced myself
Yet the bars I put around my heart melted like candle with fire when I heard your voice
You, the unforsaken abomination my mind is yet to comprehend
You, the reason for my gastroenteritis from having too many butterflies in my tummy
I never believed a human could possess all this power without even intending to wield it
You are a proof of existence of miracles
I want to love you till every fibre of my heart’s muscle knows your name
The kind of love where I strive to be my best, just for you
Where I have to change my call plan to one that allows me to talk to you for longer
To love you with all the shattered pieces of my fragmented heart
I want love – and just with you
To love you until I forget my ex-girlfriend’s first name
Till I forget how devastating heartbreak felt like
I want to love you – just you
And not for a long time
But forever.

Misery Loves Company

What is the difference between an addict and a junkie?
Why does one get sympathy and the other, judgement, when they both just want to get high?
Life is beautiful; it’s alluring, but it’s also hell.
It’s also painful and depressing.
Everybody wants an out, everybody needs one.
That’s maybe why people use drugs.
It’s also why people fall in love.
It’s why my brain was thought-tied scrambling for the correct words to form the first day I attempted to say hi to you.
Why despite you being so harmful to my soul, my body refused to ever let go.
You were my out, my source of, and also mechanism of blocking out the pain.
You, an irony of a human, gave me reason to smile at being stabbed in the heart.
These days, I’m clear-headed, no longer high.
No longer hurting from my feelings, just from what life throws.
These days, I miss you. And illogocally so, seeing as you seem to have moved on.
Moved on to finding your own new source of high.
Almost as though I never moonwalked on the cravices of the arteries to your brain to stimulate your CBD receptors.
I miss getting drunk on the brush of your lips against mine.
The only dopamine rush I get now are from thinking about how blissful our life was together.
The thought, like a hangover, also brings me pain in my head and heart.
I miss you, the same way I’m grateful you’re no longer here.
Misery loves company and you were my company.
These days, I’m no longer miserable. Just bare faced sad.
And in love with someone else’s source of high.
So what’s the difference between the one who breaks your heart and one who ghosts you, when we both felt the hurt?
Why are you seen as the victim, and I, the perpetrator?
This life, much like my skin and unlike yours, has never been fair.
What’s the difference between a junkie and an addict?
Ojoro.