Somewhere
Somewhere between joy and frustration
Between reality and imagination
Between love and hate, day and night, black and white
That’s where we are
So close but so far

i fell for you and you only watched.

i still call you, just to hear your voicemail.
i wish one day you would pick up the phone.
but at least i can still hear your voice



uncomfortable

i needed to call today
i dialed your number
and i knew there would be no answer
but today
all i heard was an automated voice message
now all i think about is what happened to you

if i am the artist
you are a collage
of all the things
i love the most

we grow wiser with age.
so teach me-
reveal to me your knowledge.
three hundred rings my elder,
what have you seen?
what have you heard?
you stand strong
through all you’ve experienced.
teach me to stand the same.

speak to me,
i'm listening.

my mind takes me,
like water in current,
so i grip your name,
to my soul, I will stir it.
lost to thoughts like maybe:
maybe large as a lake,
sometimes spread like the sea,
but your heart is my buoy,
and i call you, my baby.

"The most important part, is the part that hurts"




~John Green

I’m tired of all back and forth politics
It makes me sick
Like spring
When the pollen hits
Words get manipulated
Bend like contortionist
How unfortunate
That we speak the same language
But entirely different dialects
This is not a test
And if it was
The answer wouldn’t be no or yes
Fill in the blanks
To what you think is best
No wrong answer
So you try to guess
No wrong answer
But your Incorrect

Gravity
Bringing me back down to earth.
Gravity
Knows that love makes you float.
Gravity
Says “no, not this time.”

Another page fades
Another face aged
Over and under, again and beyond
In time we wither, till we are gone
And unto the meadows, dead with a song
It shall not be long, until we are done.

"They all love, as they dig my grave
They find love, as they dig my grave
We find love, as they dig my grave
As they dig my grave away"

In time, even ashes dissapear.

April 23 2019

i owe myself
an apology
for who i used to be
and a promise
for what i will become

Its called soul searching
But cant find it somewhere
I could feel my heartbeat tho

After months of sleeping next to you, today I woke up, rolled over to see your face, and was __.

a) in love
b) complete
c) nervous
d) alone
e) all of the above

Beauty,
such as
weathering keeps
all things clearly
in sight as
every flower blooms.
Yellow
chrysanthemums
are in full bloom
displaying their beauty
with other flowers.
The season just
began,
so bright and
beautiful with the
birds chirping away.
Their songs of
praise heard in
our yard garden.
The beautiful morning
sun is out,
already shining,
as if smiling
down with greetings.
Watching the flowers
opening up to
greet the day
with love is
amazing and awesome.
I stood in
sublime solemnity,
awe and reverence
to welcome the
new dawn emerged.
The sky is
subtly infused with
so much energy
you can
actually feel it.
And the trees
also wants to
stay still but
the wind will
not let it.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

Her hair is dyed green,
But my mind doesn't say
"Go."

someday it will
come again.
someday someone
will come in.

a star
with the deepest depths in the eyes
with the gentlest of breaths
and endless soul in the smile

one day
i'll forgive this pain
not forget -
forgive.

I wish I were made of stone
So your words would never hurt me
I wish I were cold as ice
Then maybe I wouldn't be lonely

I wish I were made of steel
So my strength would never waver
If only I could turn back the clock
To a time when I felt safer

But I'm only flesh and bone
And your words have left me bleeding
My heart is torn apart
It's a wonder it's still beating

You made up your mind
Given me your final answer
What we shared is in the past
Time to write a brand new chapter

I will fix my broken heart
Some how glue it back together
It may never be the same
It'll bare this scar forever

But I'll be strong, I'll be alright
Though I'm not as hard as steel
And I can't turn back the clock
In time....my heart will heal

Little sparks
can ignite
Roaring fires

One drop
Can flood
A valley

Small words
Can form
Big ideas

Best friends
Can make
The difference

Tiny acts
Can start
revolutions

One kiss
Can change
Your world

I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.

Do you not look at the moon
and love it for the way it reflects the sun
and think it beautiful regardless of the craters and scars

The night is not seen in darkness
but in the moonlight

And what if your clipped nails meant nothing so
Much as your fear for not looking a the pavement
Beaming petals into the grey medium between us

And what if you knew that your yellow pants
Your hands inserted halfway inside of them
Missed for insecurity the breeze that could figure
Its way between them

And create a ****** that sounds like the
First rain in autumn, or your grandmas resentment
Mingled with the twinging pain of love
Her insistent love for you, little boy

Little boy with the yellow pants,
That could be yellow leaves
That could crinkle like a smile that
Finds irony in point, in every
Green and flashing cross

A perfect poem...
   Is it the one that's well written,
Or the one having a greater meaning.?
   Is it the one with perfect verses,
Or required a perfect rhyming?
   Is it the one that speaks to all,
Or the one having hidden mysteries?
   Is it the one that let you vent,
Or the one with you wouldn't deal?
   Is it the one that opens wounds,
Or the one that makes you heal?
    Is it the one that came out of a chaos,
Or the one describing the peace?
    Is it the one that told the tale of the chains,
Or the one giving you freedom wings?
    Is it the one about the Prince charming,
Or the one exercising the demons?
    Is it the one describing the vast beauty of the nature,
Or the one about havoc of disaster?
     Is it the one that makes you smile,
Or the one that bring tears in the eyes?
     Is it the one that's written with the ink,
Or the one that bled through it all?

I'll say perfect is overrated. ..
  A poem is what that smooths an ache within the soul you never knew existed.
Just being able to pen down the thoughts gives an immense joy that you can't buy anywhere in this world.
And being brave enough to put it out there to be judged and commented that itself is a perfect poetry!!.

~for those who will read this and weep~

the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-Job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!

the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs

summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)

but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early

got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind

these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived