toxicity is just a human thing; cause of all the fumes we
all love to breathe – do our young men have much chose,
we can all live like men, but need to be trained like boys
if the roof over our troubled fires fell down, would the
smoke clear, or would we be forced to breath it all in?

but that’s how we live because we’re troubled, have dreams
inspired by the ideas of others, treat women less, as men
with no father’s, live in our own shadows because we all
hate our true colours –
                                  we just all want to breath.

As for Youthful romance
It's just like foolish Affairs –
Impulsive decisions, Fleeting emotions.

And if foolish Affairs of Youth serve
A purpose; it Serves as a simple Message:

All young Love, is DUMB love;
Until you Eventually find the ONE.

Procreate all of our conversations;  
to produce life in their endless longing words.

You, my beloved, hold a coveted title; as every time I speak
of you, my words are filled with a true and unyielding love,
that resounds ecstatically throughout any room.

For every conclusion of my speech, should leave
no doubt in your mind. Knowing without any hesitation
or reservation, that I love you – wholly, completely,
and unconditionally.

It's a real struggle for me
To be near you, and truly be myself –
Sometimes I feel like I'm either breaking free
from my shell or retreating back into myself

Yet, one thing is clear:
I'm like a timid pet turtle, gradually falling
in love with you – not knowing what to do with itself.

Start a line of thought, like a youngster
who had the chief insensitive;
Now I select my words wisely, with
silence—as no evil will be a cause of a weapon.
And of course, I start every prayer, by
coming with a confession.

As I’ve learnt the sharpest
dagger, is a jealous eye,
Worshiping all the things it lacks;
recalling those who refer to your
character only by its past—the ones to
stab you in the back.

While I was passaging around;-
In an acquainted car, deprived of any hint of tints
My soul felt stuck inside that glass box;
Clear as a lucid bright day, to see how fragile I am

The glass in itself;- was reflective, so picturized
Boldly showing all the ugliness written out,
By the milage in my eyes.

Hitchhiking at night, caught a lift with
the sun. Riding around the many of stars.
The heavens close at hand, hell conspiring;
while the world was burning.

I must of been roaming around
Judgment Day. At the edge of oblivion;
wondering which place I should go.

Limbo it was; uncertain like the ghosts
of their incomplete dues.
Two extremes, of the crowded silence;
and emptiness of all their screams.

                   Was it only a dream?

While my eyes were still open;
but blinded in their tears.
Bare hands that hold onto the heaviest
of all my greatest sins.

Cold and paralysed; I came back to life.
Soon to return back to earth.

                        Oh what a trip!

Open to a breath
The inhale, exhale composition
Tongues written of words only said:
By two intertwined

It chases, of eye’s rushing gaze
A praise to beautifying mirrors of time
Experiences only shared in story
Only by memory—what we do remember
A moment so precious

Ashes upon the smoke of burning passion
The eternal flame of love, internal
Yours exterior is the factor of my impression
Impressed by the taste of sweet desire
Oh so little

Litter my heart, of stained wickedness
It’s surely wrong to meet up like this
But like this, we seemed to be so free

Under the shade of the pink flower tree
Where our first kiss had been
A scene of film, pellicle thoughts
As you still play continuously in my head
How’d I forget our first kiss
Under the shade of our pink flower tree.

Beautiful tragedy, a travesty of love brought by
things unspoken by the lips of so many few.
A honeydew sticky to my tongue, underneath the
fun of having someone to call, “my love”

Fields of maize rustling dry leaves in the tiniest
of breeze. Reminds me of the first time love had
shook me down in my knees.
Baobab trees of a swollen heart, packing luggage in
that African trunk. Under the tree kissing during lunch,
or in all of those lessons you and I would love to bunk.

Eversharp blue pens, drawing heart pictures on my wrist.
Bathroom breaks, and scandalous friends. Making sure
the memory of you, isn’t the one thing I rinse.
I’m convinced, with all the exercise books with tiny blocks,
I’d one day be boxed in by love.

With heavy weinbrenner shoes, walking around your entire
room to make them fit. I’d walk a thousand miles
to find a place in your heart, with my charms and wit.

Cascade diary drinks, cascading shadows of your
desires milked by the many ways you’ve lived.
I felt you heavily breathe, each time we kissed,
clutching my fingers to grab onto a time,
long before the low blows of love with a closed fist.

Must be nostalgia talking into my present days
and cares. A crush sweet as orange Mazoe,
you and I once would share.

I’ll take all the time to remember those lessons from old
things, and of course an old flame of love.
Trace my fingers along the scars, and the smiles
of memories we made out together.
Despite it being out of teenage peer pressure,
I’ve grown from it, to grow into something better.

I thank the nostalgia to my love. It’s worth the look back.

We’ll bury more of the dead; -  
rather than burying the problem  
that caused their death,  

We prefer not to bury the hatchet;  
instead raise them up in arms—
yelling, “let’s all go to war”

Never kiss and tell our love,
for all we know, our friends would want some.

We should only realize,
our love shouldn't be televised.
So keep it close, right between our eyes.
We both act shy, but that's alright.
Despite what shows outside, things are more important inside.

So let's not play kiss and tell.

I saw Heaven hanging over my head like a chandelier, it's
angels were swimming in the light, whispering sweet hymns,—
in a kaleidoscope filled with broken dreams.
The gates fell open like a strand of hair, trumpets were blaring for kings, with thrones like rocking chairs, of my ancestors and their heirs. On earth, I had cattle trodding around my heart to pay for love; as dowry couldn't pay enough for who I once loved.
I drank the tears of Heaven's rains, to tie my tithes wrapped
around my neck; waiting for their fortunes reigns.

I kissed an angel that melted my lips, and had suckled on the ******* of mother nature, who fed me milk and honey to keep me alive. I danced around the edge of an end, where life begins once again. My toes felt cold as a tear drop lost in snow,— my ears were ringing like the church carillon, calling me to repent.
And from the stained glass window frames, it all immediately painted out my pain.

I thought of you, just before I took my last breath, begging the favours from the mistress of Death. I felt like a flower in your hand; each petal being picked away, asking the question of,
"does she love me or love me not." I thought of being holy enough to fit in your heart, but I was as holey as the holes in my socks. My prayers all stunk of the lie behind them all. I looked into your eyes to see heaven inside, as I was living in the world.
I bit on time to have it for seconds, and served a dish of revenge only in my heart,— I was taught it will always be a cold meal; so
I'd use my spark of love to keep it warm. I shared stories with
the world, told my biggest secrets to the sky, and left
breadcrumbs to them, in every word of my poems.

Still...in the chaos of my mind, lied a still river flowing with worth. Drowning myself in your eyes, as your every tear was the inspiration of what became our story. But I know in the end, our love will just be another person's story...

A bloom of flowers...
whispers of warmth under cold shivers...
tears of an experience...
gleaming light of joy...
a flame of echoed emotions...
reflection of loveliness...
lonely shatters of time...
the escape from a harsh reality...
a dream of eternal...
once forth as I loved you so–-all of the above,
all to remind me of your worth...

                                            At most, I'm lost for words.

I saw a madman
walking in the middle of the road. At first, I thought
he was a stranger— a figure broken loose from the world.
But then I realized: it was only me, the reflection
of myself wandering in the middle of my thoughts.

Perhaps...

I was lost in the endless expanse of my nonbeing,
caught between the idea of living and the weight
of simply being. A human being, maybe only as a
reflection in the mirror, the real self— a madman
trying to repair his mind, patching every pothole
in the road with trembling hands, covering cracks
no one else can see.

And I wonder, which is worse:
the madness of walking alone in the street, or the
silence of pretending there was never a fracture
beneath my skin.

My emotions are trapped, reverberating
like a haunting echo bouncing back and forth.
In my youth, I read that wealth is in the mind;
does this imply that only contemplating
about riches can manifest all the fortune I want?

And am I in haze of indulgence – thinking
only about ****, whenever my responses
come out blunt?

How to describe the third person,
In third person; while your eyes are
Still ******, to the world' curses:
Who says we're too different, as we
Feel magnificent, but indifferent to
Their efficient, who aren't so innocent.

But we stay vigilant, to feel certain.

Ring, ring,

Goes the call to my head,
Asking if we're heading in the
Right direction, when we're in
Over our head. Could it be red,
Could it be read? To title myself
An open book, as Nowadays it's,

Either bled or blend.

A Cinderella without her feet,
Would she in the end find her Prince?
Or would she be stepped by step sisters;
And each other's many conflicts.

I'd still watch that flick.

A Pinocchio, nosey for the
Smell of flesh. He'd tell a lie,
To get under a dress. But how
Long would he reply on a lie;
To seem like he could impress.

I'd enjoy that, I must confess.

Or if a Snow white, never met a kiss,
But instead remained fast asleep.
Or never really needed a Prince.
But a huntsman, to guard herself,
By teaching her his survival tricks.

That ending kind of fits.

But why do we use made up
Fairy tales, to ferry well, on the
Endless waves of life, just to sail.
We never really measure the details,
Because we're too busy weighing our
Problems on a broken scale.

Pinheads disguised as a nail

Don't miss your step in life,
You could be close to a misstep.
Who'd forget a first cut of a knife;
As you're always on the cutting-edge.
Thinking little of moments, but what if
That little moment had it's last breath.

You'd cherish every little moment instead.

Finally,

Poetic flow, in my pen
Is always a river of words.
Seems to grown into an Ocean,
As you can hear the Waves and Birds.
Smelling the scent of salts,
Weighing heavy on your hearts.
Drowning in my deep thoughts.

Hoping to cross,
To meet the end of my pen.
But perhaps the end is the source,
And the source are thoughts,
You follow along in due course.

A pen of flow at the water's edge;
A building wave,
Prepare yourself for what's ahead.
Ahead of the tip of my pen.
As I don't write words of boys and girls,
This pen held by ten thousand women and men.

                                 The Pen's flow

Life is a magnet;

Attracting what we like

Retracting statements;

Only after society's pushback

Hearts sometimes made of iron;

Irony seeing a hard life through soft eyes

As people are meant to be deep oceans;

But a man swims shallow— afraid to cry

Deepened by the weary of provision

Yet not provided a listening ear

She calls, "why won't you come near"

He's a magnet, pushed in a corner by fears

         ...trapped in society's magnetic fields

Pockets swole-
brokenness or dreams
Wells of my eyes-
sunken boredem or teary streams
As much; a military mind
doesn't walk into things- it's a march

Spring in that old step
whether in situations of a new season
The first key to making a moment
a keeper. I was at first a creeper,
a non believer; before a careless dreamer

it all ends in tears-
of joy or pain
all decided by how you act
under life's grey, and the rain

Life before man; the peace and creation of nature
a cloud for every eager striving flower- inhabitants
of a creek; precious stones dressing the stream’s bed
Distant cousins to sea pebbles, bond to a long year
The once great might of ancient forests; swallowing
empty valleys of earth, in their timeless brilliance
of nature

Quiet rains that are like wiping tears from the sky’s
picturesque face; to the joys of grass that hungers
The brightness of today, pours through the walls
of tomorrow’s marrow- an endless returning light
And grand spotlight to the shadows we see, and
the shadows within. Pieces of ourselves revealed
to us

Human life, under the source of day- gives an
endless revealing, of the destiny we must accomplish.

These thoughts of you,
are like the smallest pebble to the grandest mountain,
everything holds a certain value, contributing to
the intricacies of this existence.

And there must have been
an unpleasant disturbance in my heart; as if a pebble
was thrown in my eye’s still waters- causing many ripples.

Oh, it’s perfectly strange;
not quickly recognizing your own tears
anymore;- some people do cry better in the rain.

Swimming in pink, oh the blush of tears — as you tear me away
from my original nesting; a petal ripped away from their mother
flower. Watch closely as I fall to the ground, unloved- as you
softly murmur your melody of, “he loves me, he loves me not”

Sweetheart, it’s painfully clear that your heart holds no
affection for me whatsoever. You love to let me down.

"Mummy"
screams a child running into her room
"I have an owie,— a boo boo"
a child that runs into her room, is running
into her care

The cherished love, cheery smile of it,
and being patient as the cherry on top

"Mum"
miraculous unconditional marvel,
the superhero of wonders in the kitchen
At times a quiet disciplinary in public, with
a sharp eye of a cutting glare

          Later at home you'll be in trouble...

She is love, often not loved enough
even though; her love is more than enough
And can never be undone

"Mummy, mum, or just ma"
she is all, she is a mother

Tell me,
if I can make love to someone through my eyes;
Allowing me to truly witness and appreciate every
exquisite detail of them— my eyes would become
vessels, through which my adoration flows freely
for you.

There’s a charming night; her air seductive,
her beauty blinding- she strives through pain; writes a
story with a dried-out pen; writing a poem with no lines.

She is the night; her skin is brown sugar, her eyes are
filled with black galloping horses, that defies any oblivion,
her lips are red as the blushing passion of youthfulness.

Her wrongs in my eyes are a pale memory;
she is a penny with its head and tail- whichever side she
falls on, her worth affords all of my attention.

Tonight, her touch is like a paintbrush on my skin;- she
tries to paint a new moon- reflecting her smile’s shine;
she’s a candle that pierces at the darkness, and light starts to
bleed out, filling the room with an echo of, ‘her’ and only ‘her.’

She’s truly perfect, so perfect she feels unreal;
she’s a fatal misery- full of forgetfulness; the memory
of her I try to make stay. To live with her is a pain, without
her is a shame;- she’s truly perfect, so perfect she feels unreal
—sadly, she is only, and remains just a dream.

Bright ideas of fools,
an acquired taste.
Guessing I was a tool,
for seeming *******.

An acquired taste for success
has my lips shaking
To acquire success in life,
is to achieve what you make.

Make something of yourself,
something along the lines of being great
And of course,
be something different. An acquired taste.

And it’s in this miserable, and
disastrous handy advice,
All that is left; for those who aren’t
as adroit; as fishermen in the game
of love, to find their catch
— a master baiter.

Ends up being what they’ll
believe is the right choice to make
then after, to instead be
— a masturbator.

As my father likes to say,
"same ****, but a different toilet"
With kids at the age to loiter. Sitting on all their
dreams, that they feel discomfort. There's a taste of
***** in the words mixed with a little chronic.
In between the lines of sort of psychotic, and iconic;
scornful eyes of adults who think we're quite ironic.

Broke ties, with the broke kids with empty pockets,
filled with their dreams; to then having a blast with
older girls—launching your pocket rocket. Three, two,
one, is count down of when someone is coming.
To yearn for love we never got from adults, as we're
always longing. Always copying, the styles of the famous
to seem relevant in the topic. While getting high in between
classes, and pretending that feeling is so awesome.

Some skinny jeans to fit in with the masses, rip it up a
bit to be the latest in the fashion. Snap your life away,
and add a little cute caption. Looking for a bit of romance,
but my favourite genre is a little action. A little traction in
between us, until I'm tired of smashing and passing.
Falling in love—as casual. To question my worth, while
buying things more valuable. Things of the world so intangible.

Searching for answers on the wall, writing out our wishes so
you can relate to them all. Dreaming of being stars; but every
star eventually will fall. Help me, help me please, do you here
me at all?

Would you kindly be a help to your young?
I'm dying quietly in the loudest of fun.

The camera is rolling, incessantly capturing every moment of our lives, leaving us with a world that never stops recording, where privacy becomes a luxury unbeknownst to us. In these private matters, we find ourselves stripped of any semblance of secrecy, exposed to the prying eyes of an ever-watchful audience.

As we gaze upon Mother Earth, we see her through an unsettling lens, viewing her as a captivating entity, akin to a seductive **** who has birthed and nurtured countless lives. Yet, contrasting our admiration, there persists an underlying desire to possess and consume her in a primal, carnal manner. It is as if we hold a fetishistic fascination with her, using fiery words to address her before we even think to disrobe ourselves from the layers of convenience and comfort, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

This portrayal begs the question of how mankind perceives themselves amidst this intimate performance. Are we mere objects to be stripped down and devoured for the amusement of an unfeeling audience? Stripped of our dignity and possessions, we are left bare, vulnerable, and at the mercy of those who derive pleasure from exploiting our vulnerability. It is akin to a mesmerizing striptease, a tantalizing display that leaves us yearning for something greater.

In the face of such exposure, we find ourselves humbled and powerless, compelled to seek solace and redemption from a higher power. Constantly begging to be bathed in the love and mercy of a divine entity, we yearn for a respite from the unyielding gaze of the world. It appears that the world derives pleasure from witnessing us in a state of vulnerability, reducing us to our weakest form, our knees bent in submission.

In this revelatory expansion of the original sentence, we delve deeper into the implications of a world that ceaselessly records our actions. We explore the complex dynamics between humanity and the environment, finding parallels in our treatment of Mother Earth and our own susceptibility to exploitation. The expanded content retains the core meaning and context, while elaborating on the themes of vulnerability, power dynamics, and the search for solace and redemption.

In the breath of time, I gasped a second of a dream –
to clock it all in a single second; to live off seconds,
to starve on scraps, constantly second-guessing
myself. It feels like going back, stepping into my
past – a time traveller, as much, wandering the
ruins of yesterday.

Give me a second to catch my breath; here in this
second stanza; I wear each stanza like armour–
armour stitched from broken words, to fight for
peace in armour, to piece together what’s left of
honour. Where hell meant to crush my thoughts,
I cover my head with a helmet, shielding my
mind from the fire.

And if they break my bones – I’ll pick a bone with
the breaking, laughing in the face of the fracture,
gnawing on the marrow of pain until it tastes like
defiance. Every scar another tick of the clock; every
second I stand, I steal back from the seconds that
tried to finish me.

Call me a time traveller, for I’ve learned to turn
broken seconds into futures

I saw the time in your eyes,
that had me pause my breath like a stopwatch,
As if the feelings were a crime, that had
me caught out with what all it had got.
Cos when love had robbed my heart;
I grew impatient to go and call the cops.

Or was it me being impaired,
to humbly assume we could have made a perfect pair?
For the chorus of kisses subtly convinced every troubled
thought, dancing carelessly on top of my hair.
I could have been trying to force fit a puzzle piece, but it
only cuts me into pieces, realizing it was all a jigsaw.
And to nobody’s own prediction, “a shoot your shot
moment,” could prove to be so lethal.

Three stanzas; a standard for a quick understanding;
Accepting what’s current; a love of passion quickly
turning out so passive— a casual happening.
A cold turn, in the direction of a quicken head,
turning to have a glimpse of you as much.
But for this time, after having the taste of another broken
heart, I’ll put a stop to that broken stopwatch.

Cherry lips- the bite of sweetness in the very kiss
stings at my flustered cheeks; breaking my eyes to
tears, as I shut my eyes. My love, I have no doubt about
the warmth of your touch under my skin—beneath it all lies
a treasure chest, a key to unlock the flood of emotions that
surge like waves crashing around us.

We are ultimately overwhelmed by the layers—
the concern for another’s happiness woven into whispered
prayers; calling out for her soul- I once stood as a warrior,
battling my own feelings. But it gets so hard to contain my eyes
when we’re both naked and alone- a warrior standing in front
of a Medusa who turns me head to hard stone

I feel so ahead of myself- but our faces play no deceit,
in her eyes she’s made me so weak; to treasure every
step she takes walking on my mind- I should kiss her feet;
I should bow to her, showering her with love in every
fleeting moment, crafting a week worth cherishing.

          Ah, the ecstasy of those cherry-kissed lips...


Oh, the sheer joy that washes over me when my lips meet
those delectable cherry-kissed lips are simply enchanting!
It's as if a cascade of emotions erupts like a dazzling display
of fireworks, igniting a flame of passion that flickers at the
corners of my mind, crafting a rich embroidery of sensations
that is both exhilarating and intoxicating.

The sweet taste lingers on my tongue, a delightful reminder
of the magic that unfolds with every tender kiss; a euphoric
daydream that whisks me away to a realm where time ceases
to exist, and the only sound that fills the space is the rhythmic
thrum of my heart, blending seamlessly with the symphony
of longing that envelops us.

Chances seem high that I sink so low tomorrow— where
do I return the belongings of my skin, stitched too tight
with sin? And is there a good intention I can borrow?

To call love a bullseye, but it's just something darting past
me; for a lap dog on the leash of longing can’t run free—it
only circles the grass. As I fuel my odds at a gas station lot;
feathers searching for a birdie; practicing my golf swing,
hoping for a hole in one— or just putting one in a hole.

"Find a stable life," they say, but the horse track is empty,
where hooves never sound, and only echoes of betting slips.
Online, some search for a type, the screen listening to the
type of fingers. But knowing is never seeing, and belief
needs more than a glow of pixels.

"Good grief"— so cried the one who buried their beliefs,
but they still dug the dirt back smooth, as if planting a
seed for tomorrow. Till we're gone, we'll always have
tomorrow.

Songbird
resting in the tree
As an early winter leaf
is kidnapped by winds

The buried seed
in the dark, comes to light—all to see
Where there is shelter
under it's shade of canopy

And dancing fox's tail
entail such details of her redwood
It has filled my eyes with glee
to see something growing so free

As true strength of roots
is the patience we must have, and give
So like this morning wood,
does its growth be strong remarks as it appears

    Listen to the tree leaf by winds
    And the buried seed of canopy,
    All to see—growing free, and
    Give strong remarks as it appears

A concealed chaos danced in our gazes – our skins quivered,
muscles coiling tight, startled by the electric brush of our hands.
I drew the essence of my longing into your bare form, enveloped
in a veil of creamy sweetness and intoxicating fragrance;
a moment long awaited.

My lips, glistening with the fantasy of your space, a yearn to
explore those four walls that beckon me, to caress, to hold,
to savour the taste of you against my own skin. You are my
deepest desire, my ultimate love, the very pulse of my
existence; let us unite tonight to ignite a new beginning –
a new existence.

Sighing memories washing over me in the flow of a deep
blue sea, — my skin glimmers with the love of the sun, but its
affection is too overwhelming; my tears cascade, transforming every
ground beneath my feet, into an ocean the moment I step outside.

Please don’t crash into me as if I were an unguarded entrance –
the outside world hammered at the door of my heart, demanding to
be let in by any open conversation — but it takes more time for me
to open up.

Those open scars, raw and untended, are like emotional
whirlpools, dragging me down into the abyss of pain and sorrow.

Facebook has taken a break –
Now the darker side of me begins to emerge
As I struggle to remember birthdays without a nudge.

I can’t throw shade at an ex on X anymore,
As I’m deprived of the mindless scrolling, that feeds
A sickening eye on open to doubt Instagram feeds.

The relentless ticking of time feels slower
Without TikTok, and now I’m left to view my own
Insecurities without the distraction of YouTube.

There is the time when life flourishes;-
and only but a second when it all vanishes
A winter loveless; makes itself cold – needless,
airless, so emotionless- for is the state of the heart
after sudden loss.

The loss of someone, the loss of love,
the loss of dreams, the loss of time, the loss of faith,
and tragically the loss of hope; - that loveless winter
embraces your mind in a heart’s grief.

You seem afraid, so afraid to break the silence;
still, you can hear your bones break in despair –
and oh despair, “you have choked me in my heart,
banished me - I feel your hand squeezing my trivial
heart made of a speck; sometimes it’s crystal or metal,
nonetheless, it all will break.”

Though suddenly, I snap awake - perhaps it was
just all a dream; - a fierce winter to recall.
It was more, for the somebody taking everything I love,
were my own hands, around the throat of everything
I held dear- all I thought I had lost.

Spray paint the canvas of the night sky;
the red reflections in my eyes,
silently swallows up a thought,
to save a piece of mind.

So in my waking dream, I navigate
this intricate minefield of love’s emotions,
that all become so probable,
after calling you mine.

Once upon a time a kiss,
in a land of feelings, and desire
Lived what we thought was the perfect kiss,

Our very first words, of tasting one other,
and a journey of potential love;
finding our likes and dislikes, we soon came to discover

Cinderella kisses- at a time you and I had a ball,
waking up from such a lucid dream, as kids
And being so innocent and pure as a Snow white,
still skipping stones along a stream of our dreams

Never telling our parents of this young relationship we had,
and of all those secret places you and I had kissed- our neverland
As I was losing my fingers in all of the curls of your hair;
I climbed the towers of kissing up your neck with steady kisses;
to impress myself on my Rapunzel of no other compare

As I imagined you, pricked by my passion;
a sweet endless dream of beauty, with my resting head
on your bare chest; you were always such a Sleeping beauty
Sleeping in all of our cuddles, I was waiting patiently
to wake up another morning with you

Even to this day, I wonder if we could have ended our story
with a happily ever after final kiss
Sigh, it was all a fairytale,
just made to help me reminisce

                  ...the end.

Give me a couple years...
I'll be living as a king;
but right now, I'm working it all out
so hard as a slave.

Give me a couple years...
to be the boss of my own;
that once worked for bosses.

Give me a couple years...
to drink to all my successes;
filled with a cup of the tears.

Give me a couple years...
for cheers of praise of my name;
made from the whispers of disbelief.

Give me a couple years...
to enjoy the hatching of all my gold;
from the eggs I didn't count before they hatched.

Give me a couple years...
to have put smiles on my family's face,
from the times it looked at me with worry.

Give me a couple years...
to not boast of what I made;
but appreciate all that I earned.

In a couple years...
I'll be every dream I always had,
living them all wide awake.

                   I only need a couple years...

You drowned me in a whirlpool of emotions, engulfing
me in the exhilarating sensations of falling in love.
It felt so vivid, like stepping into another realm of
consciousness where the boundaries between reality and
fantasy blur.

Perhaps, it could have been yet another *******, an
intoxicating experience that thrived in the depths of
my subconscious. And amidst this haze of desire,
life appears like a pristine white sheet, evoking a sense of
responsibility to keep it unsullied and untarnished.

Like a diligent custodian, I struggle to navigate the
complexities and challenges that threaten to soil its
purity, to maintain its pristine condition.

I am a poem in motion, in itself-
I strike an empty canvas; drawing out inspiration from
the library of experiences sitting on a majestic shelf,
“what picture shall I craft,” to showcase an unheard story,
an unsung song- “and what lines shall I once again cross”

Poetry has no bounds;- its never short of words,
its expression is wild; tamed by the artist’s pen- my sword
to fight against the marching violence in my mind.
My words- are all a part of me; they separate me from the
entire world, as I watch everything unfold into the paper
where I write down my thoughts.

[the poet-
is an outsider; a broken writer, who gets his fix from
his literature art. It’s an addiction, and a cure to my everything-
yet it’s still nothing. It is here, it is there, it is everywhere; still
it comes from nowhere.

[a poem-
are her words tender, but also so raw. They are the length of her
elegant body, they are short of breath- she is my answer, she is
my many questions, she’s a truth made out of my lies. She is
everything to my nothing

No poem is a mistake; every poem is perfect-
written by imperfect people.

Gorgeous Africa, my beautiful Queen
of a thousand unspoken dreams, whose essence
encapsulates the history and heartache of past struggles
—your tears of past, drown your face in drought,
mirroring the resilience and strength that lie
within your vast landscapes and diverse cultures.

Oh land, oh the lands of dusty colored grass,
presenting a canvas painted with stories as ancient
as time itself —the tale of you; a dossal woven with
the threads of triumphs and tribulations,
each chapter a testament to the enduring spirit
of a continent shaped by the ebb and flow of empires
rising and falling.

You, a child in my eyes, a precious gem awaiting
the embrace of nurturing hands and the light of
understanding —desperately needing to be cherished
and loved, your myriad voices and narratives
seeking to rise above the clamor of past
injustices and carved destinies.

Rise, my child, rise high and so mighty,
until your presence eclipses all doubts and shadows,
a beacon of hope and empowerment for all who call
your vast expanse home —lift her up, lift her up-
her people, a call to unity and support in the
collective journey towards a future shaped by
shared dreams and aspirations.

As she is mine, she is ours to cherish and protect,
a legacy that intertwines our fates and whispers of
a shared destiny waiting to be fulfilled
—lift her up, lift her up- her people, for in her
beauty and complexity, we find the reflection of
our shared humanity and interconnection.

the moon is blue over the ocean,
her tears that fills the hole,
now reflecting what it is,
a blue blur,
so sad; but so hard to see.

Now all of emotion-
seem to be off duty
Sick of onward motion;
and things not set in motion
I'm growing cold; and frozen
so void of my apparent motion
                       But stay on duty.

Put myself on promotion;
free of living in Death's duty
Putting my self will in a glove;
then going on grips in self-love
Its handwoven, and interwoven
                        Worthen of a ruby.

With abreast of pride on chest;
all of my heart has know cruelty
But I learnt how to see beauty,
and tying closely to it's devotion
                            With faith in me.



Some of which, stressful days
will move best in slow motion;
Best of times go in a moment,
so I've come to the conclusion,
                      I'm just an Ocean.

A summer experience, all the time while
the kisses were bright—in warm regards.
The careless fall; we'd spring up a conversation
on talking about love. And how you fell for my
charms.

Retracing scars of past loves, (so few actually)
still I've been gunned down by such a handful
of quests. You'd see those marks on my arms.

By far—I'm no perfect romantic. The type to
chance his chances of the first awkward advances.
My wit to say, only comes out of less pressuring
moments. To impress you only when we've known the
shape of each other's humour.

I was a late bloomer. The sort of nerdy kid, throughout
school. Constantly anxious to impress a design on; as
a daily tool. And as usual, too full of myself thinking
I was overly too cool. But really just full fled fool.

So when we met, it was my season of necessary
growth, in the journey of my life of a revelation's show.
Questioning self worth, the ways of the world, and
YouTube videos of how to kiss a girl. And the highest
being what is means to be a man. Soft with the emotions
compared to others, and finding it hard to fit in with their
clan.

Before you met me, I was teased for walking like a
duck. Yet you told me I walk with such confidence,—
but I was a chicken towards standing out, that you could
hear a cluck in my gulps. I'm still the type to start a
conversation with, "what's up"

As being up to no good with other people my age,
but none at the drinking age of the clubs we snuck in.
Still at an early stage, I learnt I wasn't that big on going
out clubbing. But a few drinks at home, good food for at
home and sometimes drinking alone was more my norm.

Before you met me, it was what you'd call my BC days.
Still I went to church from a young age, but the Lord
wasn't the first call to hard situations. Or even ending
my prayers with a, "in Jesus name"

I'm still learning more about myself present day,
and that's okay. Because the learning experience never
ends until we're dead. So there's more to my story by
every new turning page. I might seem strange, but all
in all—I'm glad of the person I became. And the After is
beautifully being discovered today.

             I'm glad I discovered you.

The air escapes me—

As darkness envelops the night,
I shut my eyes, haunted by
The vision
Of ropes
Swaying from the ceiling
      Above.

With each glance,
A constriction
Tightens
Around my throat, a
Chilling
Reminder of
despair.