Mikelson001 - Hello Poetry

Should one sing by the voice of one and others silenced. Shut! Speak! Silence speaks. Silence speaks like a rapping knock to its host. Should the voice of a singer sings louder than its crowd. The singer sings. Crowd cheers than their crowd. Should silence speaks when voices speaks? Who hears the voice of the dead? Who hears the voice of emptiness? Barren. Who hears nothing when it never happens. Silence speaks And its biro writes [un]willingly.

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Aug 14, 2025

Aug 14, 2025 at 11:44 AM UTC

The hand writing on the wall

Should one sing by the voice of one and others silenced. Shut! Speak! Silence speaks. Silence speaks like a rapping knock to its host. Should the voice of a singer sings louder than its crowd. The singer sings. Crowd cheers than their crowd. Should silence speaks when voices speaks? Who hears the voice of the dead? Who hears the voice of emptiness? Barren. Who hears nothing when it never happens. Silence speaks And its biro writes [un]willingly.

20

“Where your answer(s) resides” In an auroral glow upon the plain. A butcher's knife (Òbē Ālápātà) fidgets in his skilled hands. A blank-stares and dry-tongue, his parched lips press tight as sweat drips onto the parched earth, a desperate plea. Syllables modulates in a whisper of prayer: “Blessed lord of grace(ōlórūn ōlòrē òfé), give a new ray(fún wā ní ìmólè)& allow the harmattan rain(òjò ōyé) to wash away the night sorrow(ēkún ālé)” But, the painter(āyàwòrán) did not pause as she paints a torn nation so burnt & shredded, a guffaw on the wide canvas but an anopheles mosquito buzzes around the canvas, as a rainbow(ìràwò) streaks across, holding clues. Eyes reflecting the rising sun, stretch across the canvas like an Oracle(ífá). A swaying tree, & a female goat(ābō ēwúré), slow-legged on the grassy plain, blood-stained breasts(ōmú tó díròèjè) & ragged breaths as she uttered a short-lived answer: “Please, patch up the wounds(ēgbò) on my chest(àyà), and let your word(òrò) be my thesis.” A single breath of life cycles on, as legs crawl homeward, the scent of cooking food betrays her belief. God does not remember the deed, nor foresee the butcher's sigh. But the butcher's knife sweat, and his heavy breath casts a spell on his children. A nation's supplication, pledging loyalty to the deity's quip. The final answer lingers, as the world falls silent, stroke by stroke, on her canvas. ~ Mikelson

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May 12, 2025

May 12, 2025 at 6:17 AM UTC

Where your answer(s) resides

“Where your answer(s) resides” In an auroral glow upon the plain. A butcher's knife (Òbē Ālápātà) fidgets in his skilled hands. A blank-stares and dry-tongue, his parched lips press tight as sweat drips onto the parched earth, a desperate plea. Syllables modulates in a whisper of prayer: “Blessed lord of grace(ōlórūn ōlòrē òfé), give a new ray(fún wā ní ìmólè)& allow the harmattan rain(òjò ōyé) to wash away the night sorrow(ēkún ālé)” But, the painter(āyàwòrán) did not pause as she paints a torn nation so burnt & shredded, a guffaw on the wide canvas but an anopheles mosquito buzzes around the canvas, as a rainbow(ìràwò) streaks across, holding clues. Eyes reflecting the rising sun, stretch across the canvas like an Oracle(ífá). A swaying tree, & a female goat(ābō ēwúré), slow-legged on the grassy plain, blood-stained breasts(ōmú tó díròèjè) & ragged breaths as she uttered a short-lived answer: “Please, patch up the wounds(ēgbò) on my chest(àyà), and let your word(òrò) be my thesis.” A single breath of life cycles on, as legs crawl homeward, the scent of cooking food betrays her belief. God does not remember the deed, nor foresee the butcher's sigh. But the butcher's knife sweat, and his heavy breath casts a spell on his children. A nation's supplication, pledging loyalty to the deity's quip. The final answer lingers, as the world falls silent, stroke by stroke, on her canvas. ~ Mikelson

29

Corpses of words litter my lips, adorned with embellishments of ellipses. I speak in tongues of madness, yet papers crumple, lifeless, devoid of muse. Darkness streaks across the skyway like faraway stars, a lone luminary twinkling before me. Meanwhile, my mind creaks with a low hum, a spectator to the whirlwind thoughts that dissipate into nothing. Through my varied feelings, truth slips away, bad words shatter their chains, and darkness loses its shadow. I hope for a tryst that awakens the muse, and a tongue that speaks the muse, in all its hues. ~Mikelson #YPCweeklychallenge

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Jan 9, 2025

Jan 9, 2025 at 2:30 AM UTC

Searching the inner core

Corpses of words litter my lips, adorned with embellishments of ellipses. I speak in tongues of madness, yet papers crumple, lifeless, devoid of muse. Darkness streaks across the skyway like faraway stars, a lone luminary twinkling before me. Meanwhile, my mind creaks with a low hum, a spectator to the whirlwind thoughts that dissipate into nothing. Through my varied feelings, truth slips away, bad words shatter their chains, and darkness loses its shadow. I hope for a tryst that awakens the muse, and a tongue that speaks the muse, in all its hues. ~Mikelson #YPCweeklychallenge

14

Definitely, there are backgrounds ready to either cover your picture or to reveal your picture. Life's best live in its slow motion. ~Mikelson

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Jan 5, 2025

Jan 5, 2025 at 1:51 PM UTC

Untitled

Definitely, there are backgrounds ready to either cover your picture or to reveal your picture. Life's best live in its slow motion. ~Mikelson

3

I enter this poem with one hand, gripping the towel against the white board. My feet fight balance, teetering on fulcrum, my heart absorbs the meaning like a fragrance.

0

Jan 5, 2025

Jan 5, 2025 at 1:48 PM UTC

Untitled

I enter this poem with one hand, gripping the towel against the white board. My feet fight balance, teetering on fulcrum, my heart absorbs the meaning like a fragrance.

4

Do not mind what a poet tells you, it is an ellipsis, find the missing truth. The title of an elder is not an umbrella to shield a child's head from life's heavy rain. When the storm comes, the child's head becomes as empty as the facade of a hollow title. Do not deceive when tomorrow's dawn foretells the fate that awaits, like a burning forest's spell. In that inferno, the bandits of deceit are consumed by the flames, their power defeated. Nothing lasts forever, for the world itself is a fragile paperclip, destined to be folded into nothingness. ~Mikelson

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Jan 3, 2025

Jan 3, 2025 at 6:45 AM UTC

irony of solitude

Do not mind what a poet tells you, it is an ellipsis, find the missing truth. The title of an elder is not an umbrella to shield a child's head from life's heavy rain. When the storm comes, the child's head becomes as empty as the facade of a hollow title. Do not deceive when tomorrow's dawn foretells the fate that awaits, like a burning forest's spell. In that inferno, the bandits of deceit are consumed by the flames, their power defeated. Nothing lasts forever, for the world itself is a fragile paperclip, destined to be folded into nothingness. ~Mikelson

13

The light piercing the window peregrinates through my shadowy memories. It's hazy. My head pounds like a festive drum. A fleeting memory flashes, an anachronism that's quixotic. I try to use complex language to mask my shame, ashamed as I am of my limerence for my blood sister. Yesterday, I crushed her desires, silencing them amidst the soothing susurrus of the trees, a secret pose, covert and hidden. Now, the ebulient joy of yesterday has given way to her stained blood beside me, her nape clutching the bedsheets as she snores. That's why I know I am destined to fail. ~Mikelson

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Jan 3, 2025

Jan 3, 2025 at 6:42 AM UTC

Untitled

The light piercing the window peregrinates through my shadowy memories. It's hazy. My head pounds like a festive drum. A fleeting memory flashes, an anachronism that's quixotic. I try to use complex language to mask my shame, ashamed as I am of my limerence for my blood sister. Yesterday, I crushed her desires, silencing them amidst the soothing susurrus of the trees, a secret pose, covert and hidden. Now, the ebulient joy of yesterday has given way to her stained blood beside me, her nape clutching the bedsheets as she snores. That's why I know I am destined to fail. ~Mikelson

2

Nothing can **** well enough than a gradual death, a slow suicide. Internationally, it steals your breathe with a precise increase of choke but you still enjoy the little escape of the air from the plant to your lung. Suicide is not suitable to be fast, quick and instant. It's a clog, constant deep-throw of ******* into the mouth of a flowing water. That's suicide. ~Mikelson

0

Jan 3, 2025

Jan 3, 2025 at 6:42 AM UTC

Untitled

Nothing can **** well enough than a gradual death, a slow suicide. Internationally, it steals your breathe with a precise increase of choke but you still enjoy the little escape of the air from the plant to your lung. Suicide is not suitable to be fast, quick and instant. It's a clog, constant deep-throw of ******* into the mouth of a flowing water. That's suicide. ~Mikelson

3

Nothing works better than a sole that breaks silence, then comes the patter patter of rain that breaks the sweltering air. ~Mikelson

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Jan 3, 2025

Jan 3, 2025 at 6:41 AM UTC

Untitled