Am tired of loving small, why can't I do it big
Am tired wishy love, why cant it be real
Am tired of self-dates, why cant I double
Am tired of imaginations,  lets have it for real
Am tired of midnight lonesome, lets keep the company
Am tired of ring-less phone, give me a ringtone
Am tired dreamy day, please make it live

Am tired of swaying, lets have a great dance
Am tired of wondering "if", I want it now
Am tired of sitting, oh! how I long to fly
Am tired of whistling, why can't I sing
Am tired of having halves, I want it all

Am tired of missing you, I want you now









CO-writer; Abena Sika

Sometimes, when I watch the stars
I wonder if they watch us too

I wonder if we, humans, amaze them
Grace the view that they see
Sparkle a light that they admire
Or maybe otherwise
I wonder if we scare them
Upset their lives with our presence
Disgust them with our dark hearts

I wonder if they deem us a splendid beauty
Or a horrible horrible mistake

So you wanted to see how long I could last?
Laid crimson coloured claims to a suppressed and ****** past?
You can pretend that I don't exist for you anymore while I try to mentally re-paint the echoing halls
I too got lost in the fun of exploration
and mystery of epic falls
then buzzard flew to a mousy haired girl
bones picked
flesh stripped
raw and unfurled
But I'd like to lay claims to being able to laugh about it now.
Lunatics often find humour in the ****** up, and humbly accept fate with a bow
But I ******* hated every minute I waited for your texts.
and each day that you 'forgot' to call
Left riddled and perplexed.
Traced fingers on the ticked trigger of a tactile gun
cynical sensations and sinful temptation
Once more,
surpassed
used up and done
You made me feel so low.
build me up
To let me go

He said he'll love me more than ' H '.
Yet all three of us show up on most dates.
The sparkle in his eyes is stronger for caps than for me.
But this isn't jealousy.
It's communism,
because the bounty is split.
More split than personality changes in nighttime and crossed legs from hips.
What do you do when you dig someone who doesn't dig you as deep? What do you do when the old habits of yours begin to wake from their sleep?
He tastes like the sky, looks like rain,
But i'm just a puddle he's having a good time dancing in,
and his footprint feels more like a beauty mark than a stain burnt in scarred skin.

I don't have time to shape/define this poetry
so take it as it is and know that one day
you'll be pushed into the empty hole
that's not quite hell and more than loneliness
and I won't be sending you postcards because
for some reason yours never found me -
or maybe you just didn't send them.

Standing in the shadows is a lonely clock that's painted red
Made from blood and carved from bone - a clockwork core that's cold like lead.
A convoluted clockmaker sits wizened by its feet
He sits and thinks, nods and knows, the clock will not its maker meet.
He tells himself he's but an ember, tells his clock it will tick on
Wrapped in black like black's in fashion, with no heart save pendulum.
He knows the clock is icy fire, if he, the maker, is its spark
He looks upon his ticking beast and knows his hand has made its mark.
He lets his clock keep ticking, never stopping, won't tell why,
And its maker curls up on the floor; his final breaths are whimsic sighs.
His lonely clock keeps ticking, ticking, ticking - ticking, ticking still,
Standing regal in the shadowed room, but bending to its maker's will.