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Boma 7h
I miss my mum
She's not dead
She's just holed up in work instead

No complaints
No regrets
But I know she hates this life when she scratches her head

I miss my mum
She's in the next room

Wanting to be free
But she doesn't leave
Because she misses me too
You have decided: you cannot forgive anyone, because it is hardly possible to change anything anymore. You can *****, blindly, hesitantly count on one or two of your old friends and acquaintances, hoping to help you on the path of your pathetic, shipwrecked life, which – it seems – you must walk alone for good. Often you yourself are more like that, held back by conscious fear, a petty spasm of no-man's-land terror, wondering what might still await you among the wolf traps of calculating, compromising everyday life, in the company of people who are no longer even remotely interested in your fate, life, or dreams.

Soul-guts crawl out of the depths of your soul at night; your organs increasingly obey your instincts and your common sense is responsible for them alone. It would be better to escape, perhaps to the sandy, palm-tree beach of another world, where joy, harmony, and carefreeness could welcome you instead of the robot-yoke worries of everyday life. – Now you often feel deep in your soul that you have bet everything on a single well-calculated ***** deck of cards, hoping that the blind luck of the cards would favor you.

All the worries and crosses of forty years of vileness that have deliberately persisted and accumulated in you evaporate, infecting its victims like some envious poison-elixir. You could not accept the slaps of life, the somersault rules that you believed were unbreakable, it would have been good to fit keys into a thousand anonymous, rusting locks, to make the redemptive liberation openable. From your confused nightmares – it would be good to trust – that you will find your way home safely through the One-Someone!
They said the stars were born of dust,
That life awoke by chance- not trust.
No hand to shape, no grand design,
Just atoms spinning, cold and blind.

They taught us all to chase the light,
To crown the mind, dethrone the night.
But stripped of soul, what did we find?
A clever beast. An empty mind.

No voice from heaven. No sacred law.
No seeing eye. No heart in awe.
Just bones that break. Just blood that dries.
And meaning lost beneath the skies.

Yet in the silence, something stays-
A whisper through our shadowed days:
"He sees you still, though no eye sees.
What you sow now returns to thee."

It is the line before the crime,
The pause, the weight, the edge of time-
The thought that sears, the fear, the flame:
There is a Judge- you’ll speak your name.

But cast that voice in silence out,
Replace it with the hunger’s shout,
And man will turn with sharpened claw,
To write his will as nature’s law.

He'll build machines, then break the sky,
And never once ask, "Tell me why?"
He'll sit on thrones of steel and fire,
With hollow heart and cold desire.

So science grows, but wisdom fades.
The lights shine bright, yet cast long shades.
And in their glare, we lose the thread-
Forget the living. Mourn the dead.

Let science serve, but not command.
Let knowledge walk, not seize the land.
For when the soul is left behind,
The mind becomes a cage, not mind.

So whisper still, O voice divine-
Be now our brake, our sacred line.
Not all is dust, not all in vain.
The truth remains: we rise again.
I wrote it as a reminder that beneath progress and power, there still lies a sacred voice- a final line before the fall.
heaving breaths and it
feels like gods choking
me again, my vocal cords
are strained, my voice
a squeak. Invisible
tears stain my cheeks,
still dry. I'm imploding
and becoming super-nova
or maybe a black hole
instead. Screaming a
whisper:

H E L P
M E
You ever just feel so unable to speak that it's like a chain around your neck?
Even though you want more than anything to talk about it?
I used to get that a lot.
We crowd, crowd, and even interfere with each other in ever-narrowing, gradual spaces; an eternally swirling roller coaster-calvary, like a kind of peculiar homesick Odyssey, which can be realized less and less with dignity. Our joy is only rarely, if at all, and the momentary intention of liberation is lost from everything else. The Lack, which is saturated hourly and then emptied in an infinite amount, swells and swells more and more - if necessary, if not - and from age - perhaps - it can endure less and less.

Because the return journey - if necessary, if not - can increasingly often come in one's way involuntarily, and there is no way to solve it, like a secret worldly riddle: where should one go?! - In many cases, one would rather remain a rabbit than a poacher. Many times, a cunning hand still nudges him on the back of the head, always coming up with the latest reason to outwit this present life with dignity.

Everyone is just waiting for applause, appreciation, fame; meetings with friends, acquaintances, birthdays, major disgraced, profit-oriented big holidays, celebratory parties are gradually being postponed. The holy helpless one of joys remains like this a little until the end of time, since birth is also a kind of intermediate countdown to the final passing away. Even if a person tries to break away in the end, in vain; the wild, clinging blood circulation jungle of the eternally greedy big cities grinds him down. Every heartbeat, every trembling sigh of the underworld has been marked with invisible wounds that will last a lifetime!
I ducked their axe
But not the slap
The belt strap
And again and again
The razorblade
To my inner thigh
Of little maps
Flesh wounds
Like roses
I built hot memories
Warm enclosures.
Now my body
Is safe
Though not from their faith
And again and again
I am still caged
But now with longer spells
Of sunshine awake.
Osaro is in iron prison,
Drowning in deep river of pain,
Seeking for an escape route,
None found.
Can't speak.
But painfully cries at heart,
Thinking of the glue joining him to hot ***.
His sugar cause him this bitter moment.
His joy makes him cry all day.
He gives her milk.
She demands for honey,
Directly from bee,
Good for her system.
He gives her honey.
She demands for sugar,
Sweeter than honey.
Sugary river expands love,
So her love will flow like sweet river.
He gives her sugar.
"No," she says,
She wants the provisions of fruits, juice and food,
So she can be a leaf.
He makes these ready.
She then demands for mansion,
Containing meal and fun.
That will suffice her.
He bond himself (in debt),
And hands her the key
To her mansion,
Beautiful like the garden of Eden.
She says, "No! Why will I be among the least?
I want an estate,
Not small,
But vaster than an empire."
He bonds himself,
Sells his siblings,
Robs,
And sells all his acquaintances.
And buys an estate for her.
Still yet, she envies,
Jealous all day.
Listens to air.
Sees the world (on Instagram).
Though among the top,
She wants to be the very top.
She then demands for the whole world.
Perplexed and Overwhelmed.
Frustrated and swimming in a pool of thought.
Osaro doesn't know what to do.
He is now a bondman.
He gained nothing in all,
And he had lost all.
All works on woman.
No reward, no profit.
His loss is her gain.
In frustration, he brings out a knife,
And hands it to his delight:
"Since I can't satisfy you,
I present my head
As a living sacrifice.
Take it,
And have the whole world."
A powerful narrative poem exploring the destructive cycle of endless desire and self-sacrifice in relationships.

"MR. OSARO" tells the tragic story of a man trapped in an ever-escalating cycle of giving, where no gesture of love is ever enough. Through vivid metaphors and progressive imagery, the poem chronicles Osaro's journey from simple acts of care—offering milk, honey, and sugar—to increasingly desperate sacrifices that consume his entire existence.

The poem serves as a cautionary tale about toxic relationship dynamics, examining themes of:
- Insatiable desire and the impossibility of fulfilling endless demands
- Self-destruction through excessive giving and people-pleasing
- Modern materialism and social media-driven comparisons
- The cost of unconditional sacrifice without reciprocation
- Identity loss in the pursuit of another's happiness

Written in free verse with a haunting progression, the poem builds tension through its escalating demands—from simple provisions to mansions, estates, and ultimately "the whole world." The biblical undertones and sacrificial imagery create a powerful commentary on love, loss, and the human condition.

This piece will resonate with readers who have experienced or witnessed relationships where giving becomes a prison, and love transforms into a burden that ultimately destroys rather than nurtures.

Genre: Contemporary Poetry, Social Commentary, Relationship Drama  
Themes: Love, Sacrifice, Materialism, Identity, Self-Destruction  
Tone: Melancholic, Cautionary, Tragic
Now I am again where the shore is splitting in two; it would be better to finally get over – while I can – all the childish, petty donkey marches that this current digital colonization cannot even half understand, since it is not even blessed with a sense of balance, at most only with a series of manipulations, petty, delusional offers and promises. My drawn-up, increasingly torturous everyday lives, like boomerangs returning to themselves, run around, spinning the pillars of my already diminishing time.

Like a tightrope walker or artist on a half-cut, stretched rope, I am slowly becoming disappointed to the core; and especially in those who held the knife that cut my non-existent, pretended career, my intentions to assert myself. Now all I wish for myself is this: let me see through everything! Let me know and feel in whom weak evil nests, and who can even speak the honest truth in confidence!

For now it is even more of a scapegoat-error that in my shame-stained worldly soul life and withering decay coexist. It would have been better perhaps to have plunged from the intoxicating, immortal peaks of the intoxicating intoxications of the Universe into incarnation immediately, before it was too late; the enchanting redemption passed in order, but so did the certain deciphering, which could still have opened the keys to my heart battered with humility.

Now we must be more and more careful, since tomorrows stripped of the power of petty powerful ones loom over our heads, globalizing all our helplessness. In the corners of brain coils, some nuclear tensions have exploded for the umpteenth time.
i'm deafened by the
silence; air palpable
and I can hear my
heart beat fast.

Its like I was
back there again.
you would do well to remember
that I'm not made of stone
thousands of papercuts into
my armor, it splits and I
bleed unto paper.
...
I wish I could bleed out in
your arms, instead.
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