She's standing in front of me, blank face, her eyes wide.
She takes her hands and stabs me in the chest, prying my body open.
She rips out my heart.
Guts.
Thoughts.
Feelings.
Everything I wanted to say spews out of me.
I fall to the ground.
It's too late now to say the words that are oozing out of my mangled frame.
I should've said them when I had the chance.
She stands over my dying body, expressionless.
She walks away slowly, head held high, and doesn't look back.

The only thing I can do is watch her leave me.

I cannot speak, the words are entangled in the blood on the floor.

I cannot blink, I was forced to watch everything I've ever loved hurt me as they leave.

Tears are my only comfort at this point, the one thing I know I can count on.

EVERYTHING HAS TO BE LOOKED AT, SQUEEZED AND PRODDED,
NO POINT IN BUYING IF IT LOOKS MISERABLE - SO MUCH TIME
IS SPENT - IT'S IMPORTANT IF YOU CAN SAVE A CENT,
SO MUCH FUSS -IT JUST HAS TO BE, 'FIT FOR PURPOSE,' DOESN'T IT?
THE COLOUR IS WRONG, THE FIT TOO LONG, WE BOUGHT IT FOR A SONG;
DON'T MENTION BIRTHDAY CARDS - SOMEONE'S READING EVERY WORD,
THE 'BROWSE' IS ON - IF YOU ASK A QUESTION, IT WON'T BE HEARD,
THIS IS TOO HARD, THIS IS TOO SOFT, THE CONTAINER IS DENTED,
WHEN WE'RE IN COSMETICS -THE DEODORANTS ARE TOO STRONGLY SCENTED,
THIS MUST BE OLD STOCK BUT I DON'T WANT TO LOOK AT ANOTHER WOK,
WE RETURN SOMETHING BECAUSE IT'S FADED - NOW I'M FEELING JADED,
FORGOT THE POINTS, FORGOT THE CARD - DON'T FORGET THE NEXT ONE'S FREE;
WE'RE IN THE LINE, IN THE QUEUE - HOW MUCH LONGER MUST WE WAIT,
I CAN'T HELP IT IF I'M PAST MY SELL - BY - DATE!

sometimes, i think of you
& my heart breaks again
but usually, as my day goes on
i feel amazing without you weighing me down

I know you weren't the one because you didn't like my yellow coat,
The one Sacha told me made me look like a whale watcher,
When Sacha said that I felt tall and strong,
The coat made me feel prepared
And I wore it like a suit of armour,
Shield in hand, sword raised high. Ready!
The weather makes me feel like a bird,
Frenzied and beautiful,
Swaying in a tree,
Hot, damp and alive.
I'll always love my yellow coat,
To wear on handsome grey days,
Sharply defined in dimly lit doorways,
Like a honey eater in a stark, dead tree,
That's how I know you weren't for me.

Am not writing to whom it may concern
But to the poets whose silence i want to discern
You are the prophets of the
Word
And if you mute you earn our world no profit
Am worried you have gone hiding
And abandoned your call of writing
You have denied your pens the justice
And you have played mute in many instances
Where is your voice?
Your fingers have slept
And you haven't poured your heavy soul unto the paper
Why are you not talking about the evil that has cast a blanket over earth dwellers?
Don't you feel this tangible darkness that has enveloped our planet?

Where has your voice been when fathers have been sleeping with daughters
Or it no longer matters
For mothers to lie with their sons?
Why have you spared your ink
And just watch as kids stop taking milk and water and fight over beer
None of you has been bold enough to write about that man who betrayed his nation for a piece of gold
Have you forsaken your mission?

Your silence is too loud
Are you dumb of the warning sirens
And like the ostrich,you have buried your head to the soil with pride
I wanna know why you have played dumb:why thee borrowed your ears to the waters and non of this you hear
And our women throw their foetuses away like a man doing open excreta
Arise oh writers arise and wipe away this coming darkness with the light from your papers for when the good are silence its evil done enough
I wonder why writing pads are clean
Yet men have stop desiring man and are siring thoughts  to woo men  
Why have you not quoted the scripture to condemn this abomination?
"Behold woe unto to man who lies with another man"
Are there no writers to pull of this dark shirt of evil we have donned?

Am not playing saint by asking these questions
But my conscious is burdened
I need to offload this nagging from my shoulders
Only you poets who can set my mind free
So arise African writers
Let your pens bleed the truth
Two wrong never make a right
But what you write can rectify all wrongs
For prosperity will never forgive a man who goes to sleep during the day while goats eat his barn of yams

Bite my lip
Draw blood
A perfect red
On imperfect white
Pain
Within love
Arched backs
On flat sheets
A moment
In a lifetime
Of moments

truth be told,
I am not that bold.
It is a jab into my eye,
a reality full of lies that my mom blames this distress.
Hold on, I can't tell black from white. Might as well be blind, I can predict even the scenic route that people doubt. My whereabouts are no longer in a crowd, standing with witnesses is unhealthy for me.
I want privacy, isn't being alone key anyways? Who is to care
if I write "Beware" or just  stare. In the end, there is this sentence left to bare. Always interpreting the language I so rarely speak. Energy may flow for others, but I am not a plug one can spark by lousy remarks.