believe me when i say
that id throw my life away
to just be by your side again
until my dying day
cause without you im not me
and im never gonna be
til youre holding me so tight again
that you are all i see.

I'm like a pencil,
you can use me for now,
but eventually I'll break.

It is the season of
wiggly toes in wool socks,
witty novels and obscure films,
raindrops,
silver against the night sky,
And despite the crisp air,
an overwhelming feeling
of warmth.
It is the season of
warm feelings
that have no objective,
but only,
to feel warm
when my toes
meet yours
in a lucky accident.
Small secret moments,
no more real
than in my heart
and in my head.

The violin
I have yet to pick up
It weeps for you
Someday
When my fingers learn to play
A tune so bittersweet
It causes the winds to tremble
And brush across the quivering leaves
To bring your heart back to me
To mine
Where your name is embossed
In fine carved mahogany

That the melancholy cries
Of the bow across the strings
Stretched thin across the miles
Could reach your pensive ears
And last you
Through the years
Only two until we are both free

Maybe nostalgia is a weapon
Or maybe I am too ambitious

I have yet to discover the depths
Of what I would become for you

Here, now, is the world before me:
Women are struggling to make a living
And men struggling for beer.
The markets are full of drying-up warehouses
And market stalls pregnant with emptiness.

A woman comes in,
Calls the last goods on the shelf, indicating interest.
There are the dying smiles that echo no goodwill
Upon the naming of a price-below-purchasing;
There are the hungry laughters at the teeth of the buyer
Who seeks his own gains;
There are the welling-up tears that fill the eyes of the seller
Who needs the penny to live another day.

Poverty and want wears an ugly face
And gives hate a voice to echo its disdain.
Much displeasure fills the air but in business
The customer always wins.

Pain eats up my heart as I watch the transaction.
Here, survival matters- just as much as love,
But now even this is no more.
                                                      
                                                                                     Abacheke-Egbema, Imo State. January 2014

jam gotowy na smerc... ja sam jak śmierć... ja iglatym ruchem piór gotowy na ukraine! pierdole ten londyn mgły i wendrowni liczenia osób w psiarni darwina.*

and i too swore upon my shadow cast
that it was a crucifix and not the elongated
  limb of counted digits up to five.

They told me to write again
I said I cannot
The pain would be to great
It is only an account of suffering

They told me to write different
Write about something pleasant
They love a cheesy romance
Happy ending and all

I cannot write of joy
Suffering consumes my heart
Pain flows through my veins
And stains paper with true romance

Like Pip and Estelle
I love a black heart
I am never to be rewarded
With the love of my love

Like Jay and Daisy
My love chose another
My heart ripped from my chest
I am left for dead

True love knows little joy
Happiness is brief
Suffering is great
Pain is indefinite

Because true love is to suffer
On another’s account
To love despite suffering
To love no matter what

Star-crossed lovers have little hope
But I will continue to write
Only of our suffering love
My muse is not lost

Life has ups and downs.
Never knowing where you'll end up.
You can feel that something will happen soon, but what?
People never know untl it happens.
So dont try or beg God to tell.
Live one, or you will never know what the future holds.