Letting go is not a single act-
it is art made in fragments.
Like tearing a beloved photograph
Pixel by pixel
until smile fades.

It begins with silence,
the kind that grows like moss
over memory.
You stop correcting their name
when people ask.
You stop replaying the what-ifs
like your breath depends on them

It is an unlearning-
of their laugh, their scent,
their rhythm when they walked away.
You erase them
not with fire,
but with absence.

There's no applause in this gallery.
No frame for your pain.
Just the brushstroke of each
morning
where you choose not to look back.

You start to fill your lungs with now,
to water seeds you almost forgot
to plant.
You realize your heart
was never meant to be a museum
of people who left,
but a garden
for who you're becoming.

Letting go isn't moving on-
it's moving in.
into yourself.
into peace.
into the blank space
where you finally
begin again

There's a riot behind my ribs
a symphony of shattered thoughts
conducted by anxiety
in a room with no doors.

I wear silence like armor,
but inside-
drums beat with no rhythm,
memories clash like cymbals
and fear hums like a distant engine
that never runs out of gas.

Voices I never invited
shout louder than the ones I need.
They argue in my mind
like lawyers with no case,
pleading guilty to crimes I didn't
commit.

I laugh at the wrong times,
not because I'm happy-
but because laughter is louder
than the screaming
no one else can hear.

Some nights,
the noise is so loud,
I pray for sleep to come
like static to a broken radio.
Not to fix it-
just to blur it out.

But every morning,
I wake to the same frequency-
a mind wired wrong,
but still tuned in.

Him : “You’re nothing without me”
Her  : “I’m nothing with you”

I told him - it’s you not me;
You don’t love yourself enough to love me!

Do not write and hide what's not or what is right.
For when left hidden in the night-
The day will expose it bright!

She wakes me up with
''sorry babe I slept on you''
with the pastor in her bed
  and devil in her room!

Is not fear.

Is far from having nothing to say.

Respect  Silence.

2am's are colder than overnight waters;
Frail hours manipulated by flames' want of being put out-
The prey is peace tormented by envy,jealousy,greed-haunted Insomniacs.

2am's-a regretting phase
to a drunk caller not returning to
his habitat,for a syndrome.
A shadow he cannot outrun!

2am's determinance of tenacity
remembering her roots,
Theatre of dreams for
an awaited by responsibilities
African first child.

2am's grip blood,sweat and tears
Of night-shoppers' preference
Of used goods;
In carts,even when wet
for its not about taste!

2am's feel for a diasporan's spouse
Once a patient veagan hastily entombed in a game,
Long demolished by poachers.

Let their scent not
attract devastation;
Fallible stems and petals,
Ego of a garden
With a possession
yearned by eyes
rubbing hands at
their growths spectation.
Let their base clench
only the goodness within
the soil.
Their bodies know
the palm
when time's right.
Let the truth given
to them steer their blooming
like the voice repeatedly
reminding them what not
and what to do
Amen.

Hunting in exotic lands
Today we made an encounter
To never go home she cheerfully vowed
To never ever think of her children's athirstness
To deprive them life and never send anything
To replace them with foreign fruits of her never tiring womb
She has decided to make her legs
'her' source of provisions......
I concluded.

He made butter fly
And turned dragons to flies!

I heard you say you are an expert at selling anything
Even your body?

In his  fight-night presence
and
In his affectionless absence.