umar-yogiza-jr - Hello Poetry

Downward Beloved, touch me part|after|part downward like rainfall. I want you like how farmers want first rain. I don't want to know where you start, I just expect you in my body, to be wet. lay kisses on my lips mild|into|mild like turgid music into soul — welcoming|expecting|gladly like a delayed menstrual period. let my clothes come off gently like prayers fall my body into yours like devotion research my body parts delicately — |there is witful poetry between my legs|. Research my body parts deep, deeply Till your touches becomes a professor Till I forget my mother and father Till I forget death, paradise and hell I am a dishless meal spoon is not welcome. Betray every sadness in my body like Judas. Come into my ocean raincoat and swimming is not a requirement. |there is witful poetry between my legs|.

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Dec 12, 2018

Dec 12, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC

Downward

Downward Beloved, touch me part|after|part downward like rainfall. I want you like how farmers want first rain. I don't want to know where you start, I just expect you in my body, to be wet. lay kisses on my lips mild|into|mild like turgid music into soul — welcoming|expecting|gladly like a delayed menstrual period. let my clothes come off gently like prayers fall my body into yours like devotion research my body parts delicately — |there is witful poetry between my legs|. Research my body parts deep, deeply Till your touches becomes a professor Till I forget my mother and father Till I forget death, paradise and hell I am a dishless meal spoon is not welcome. Betray every sadness in my body like Judas. Come into my ocean raincoat and swimming is not a requirement. |there is witful poetry between my legs|.

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hook of comfort Before your homely art, my mother. I come mysteriously crisper outside my body. Bait me after you; let us fish. I left the hook I can't comprehend, another watery grace there is drowning souls. I am tired pretending to the future. I can't swim. Canoe me, I left my hope and desires. Looking. Looking. Without seeing. My brothers are scholars in the art of killing, but unable to master how to bleach their hearts, They are a book with cruel characters sweet landscapes; going backward, and dialogues that brain-drain its readers. Characters that will dialogue you out of reality into their perception; till you eat your fingers taking it for spoon they've kissed me with the lips of their hatreds Till I resembled a sachet of weak love. Till voids steep me and gross my hope. If you are a drunker, better wine will bait you.

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Dec 12, 2018

Dec 12, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC

hook of comfort

hook of comfort Before your homely art, my mother. I come mysteriously crisper outside my body. Bait me after you; let us fish. I left the hook I can't comprehend, another watery grace there is drowning souls. I am tired pretending to the future. I can't swim. Canoe me, I left my hope and desires. Looking. Looking. Without seeing. My brothers are scholars in the art of killing, but unable to master how to bleach their hearts, They are a book with cruel characters sweet landscapes; going backward, and dialogues that brain-drain its readers. Characters that will dialogue you out of reality into their perception; till you eat your fingers taking it for spoon they've kissed me with the lips of their hatreds Till I resembled a sachet of weak love. Till voids steep me and gross my hope. If you are a drunker, better wine will bait you.

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children of death and settlement by the tired, busy mouth of the evening; where the only art is entering you squat, bare in the corner of darkness suffering and smiling; searching for the love of another darkness there! i mistook you for a lost shadow, for i let you go let you go. before now, i slept into the is same darkness waiting to be ferry into tomorrow; thinking the large body of retrospect past is immutable but can't convince my pen that the only poetry in nigeria is her present —messed-up by the same gone, ageless people we revered, we have to let them go let them go. into the red dark past nigeria, there is a labyrinth tree whose ripe fruits are love and poetry but was intentionally neglected; we let it go, let it go. looking through this tree i can see into the future; above and beneath — the ****** hatred of death and grave's settlement, that we can't let it go, let it go. gently —gently and gently i want to sink the deepest borehole of poetry into this tasty period where the only water is not only bullets; but nepotism, tribalism neglecting naked reality that brewed the wine that we can't let it go let it go. the largest wound in our hearts where the past bullets pierced our comforts i want to heal it before i let it go, let it go. i sauntered through this discomforting pain; climbing through — the disagreements betrayals, backbiting debaucheries and raw selfishness — minds who don't want to let it go, let it go i enter the past the way good poetry entered the indolent through its untied roads and whispering potholes with the hope that not all nigerians are stupid through this silent tired, busy mouth where the only poetry is entering you must broad your search; night is also an unemployed graduate, wanting to let to go, let it go. © umar yogiza jr abuja, nigeria.

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Dec 12, 2018

Dec 12, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC

Untitled

children of death and settlement by the tired, busy mouth of the evening; where the only art is entering you squat, bare in the corner of darkness suffering and smiling; searching for the love of another darkness there! i mistook you for a lost shadow, for i let you go let you go. before now, i slept into the is same darkness waiting to be ferry into tomorrow; thinking the large body of retrospect past is immutable but can't convince my pen that the only poetry in nigeria is her present —messed-up by the same gone, ageless people we revered, we have to let them go let them go. into the red dark past nigeria, there is a labyrinth tree whose ripe fruits are love and poetry but was intentionally neglected; we let it go, let it go. looking through this tree i can see into the future; above and beneath — the ****** hatred of death and grave's settlement, that we can't let it go, let it go. gently —gently and gently i want to sink the deepest borehole of poetry into this tasty period where the only water is not only bullets; but nepotism, tribalism neglecting naked reality that brewed the wine that we can't let it go let it go. the largest wound in our hearts where the past bullets pierced our comforts i want to heal it before i let it go, let it go. i sauntered through this discomforting pain; climbing through — the disagreements betrayals, backbiting debaucheries and raw selfishness — minds who don't want to let it go, let it go i enter the past the way good poetry entered the indolent through its untied roads and whispering potholes with the hope that not all nigerians are stupid through this silent tired, busy mouth where the only poetry is entering you must broad your search; night is also an unemployed graduate, wanting to let to go, let it go. © umar yogiza jr abuja, nigeria.

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he asked me my country's future? And was startled I pointed to my smoking scars— they are the path where I entered my pains. I said. my future wear prayers like sunglasses. we only show others what we want them to know lying to ourselves, thinking out body is a single person. drowning in the arms of our potentials. he asked me my country's road where the past had tared for our journey through my eyes, he saw a fog future linking only through to an un-motorable road — where museum of scars and blood are the only vualable display antiquity and the violence a home where our beds are death my country is a pregnant ****** whom everyone sleep with but no one want her baby we call people friends just to suit our purpose they are all fake because we are too. now i know. don't **** yourself umar yogiza jr. don't die. your heart is not full, no one's heart is. i cannot go round waiting to be loved everyone have themselves to love, and not enough. The city walk, no one claim. the village I left, no one claim. stranger at home and outside home all people care-for is their room. yogiza, this city eat you like breakfast, yet you make your ancestral home stranger to feed you. every eye on me is suspicion —now even mine. if you ask me where am i going? i don't know! the past, present and future had been claimed i won't **** myself, i love you everybody i meet. this is not my poem but yours. i want to smile.

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Dec 12, 2018

Dec 12, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC

for umar yogiza jr.

he asked me my country's future? And was startled I pointed to my smoking scars— they are the path where I entered my pains. I said. my future wear prayers like sunglasses. we only show others what we want them to know lying to ourselves, thinking out body is a single person. drowning in the arms of our potentials. he asked me my country's road where the past had tared for our journey through my eyes, he saw a fog future linking only through to an un-motorable road — where museum of scars and blood are the only vualable display antiquity and the violence a home where our beds are death my country is a pregnant ****** whom everyone sleep with but no one want her baby we call people friends just to suit our purpose they are all fake because we are too. now i know. don't **** yourself umar yogiza jr. don't die. your heart is not full, no one's heart is. i cannot go round waiting to be loved everyone have themselves to love, and not enough. The city walk, no one claim. the village I left, no one claim. stranger at home and outside home all people care-for is their room. yogiza, this city eat you like breakfast, yet you make your ancestral home stranger to feed you. every eye on me is suspicion —now even mine. if you ask me where am i going? i don't know! the past, present and future had been claimed i won't **** myself, i love you everybody i meet. this is not my poem but yours. i want to smile.

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