Loneliness as room is just an endless big white room
with nothing inside
everything is white
We've been trapped in this room
for years
yet we're still trying
to find the exit
Loneliness as a room will eat you alive
they eat you from
the inside
slowly
making your inside
turns to stone
Loneliness as a room makes you hear nothing
but your own voice
see nothing
but your own shadow
they make you deaf and blind from
outside world
they protect you from the creatures
that trying to hurt you
Loneliness as room  makes you blind
makes you deaf
because it turns you
into a stone
a blank page
a ghost
so you don't have to feel
to see
to hear
anymore.





October 8th 2014, 12:32 a.m

I don't have any words left
in my mouth
Life has take it all away
I don't have any tears left
in my eyes
Life has take it all away
I could still
remember
when life take it all away
everything that
I had
to the very last
to the very end
I'm a hole
I'm a hollow
I'm a ghost
I'm the undead
do not fear me
because I have nothing left.


October 9th, 2014. 09:25 p.m

Yes, it’s a poem no matter who reads it,
worded conclusions one line at a time
Splattering ink on the pages of reason,
whether or not you can sense any rhyme

Searching my dreams for the perfect notation,
picking and choosing what I hope she sees
Gathering leaves of our tomorrow seasons,
falling to earth on the breath of a breeze

Echoes I’ve whispered in words used so often,
carved in the essence a float in my mind
Wandering footsteps through valleys of wishes,
happy endeavors in phrases I find

Till comes the day when she sits here beside me,
sharing the beauty her smile does inspire
And of the views framing skies of forever,
promising visions of windswept desire

I write these verses of heart felt emotions,
all of them true in the fashion I send
For very soon I’ll be rounding the corner,
penning her poetic love once again

they said you write a poem about someone you love and so she started writing one for herself

I'm always seeing poetry about loss, destruction, heartbreak...etc. It took me a moment to think of why we wrote mostly on these sad subjects. But then I got it. We write about our deepest and scariest feelings because poetry isn't just a form of writing, it's a way to let the readers and ourselves know that we all feel lost at times. And you you know what? That's okay! It's okay to feel broken. Because at least we're all a little broken together.
And that, my dear reader, is the most special part of poetry. That this hidden pain we all harbor can be shared in small rhymes and thoughtful words. We, as poets, can show that even, even destruction can be beautiful. That we can be beautiful despite all our hidden flaws.

(WHO CAN POEM SERIES 1)

-Who can tell why a Child cries?

It's in the spun of his thoughts
In the thoughts of his mind
The mind of his soul
In the vibes that he sings
The voice of the Night
It's in the night that he fears
In the fear that he holds
The shadows he sees
It's in the cuddle he miss
The rain that he feel
The heat that he bears
And
The morrow that he threads

It's in the scream of the nights
In the plights of the owl
The ***** on his skin
The noise of the cars
The images he conjures
It's in the things he cannot see
In the words he cannot hear
The strangers he cannot near
It's in the reach of his heart's tears
The heart of his life
The life of his soul
And
The innocence where he dwells

Ovi Odiete* ©

All rights reserved

*THE WHO CAN SERIES 1