I wish for the emptiness,insecurities, and hatred to leave. And leave nothing but their footprints, their sound and their silence. A little reminder that they were once here. Like some of my friends. I wish to thank them soon for leaving. Because apparently, I only have a few room in my heart- for one thing or another. And it could no longer be for things that doesnt wish to stay.
Trigger warningVery disturbing Dear sir, I write to you at a time when Bloodshed has become a trending hashtag. When genocide is another word for good morning. When a mosquito bite has resulted in a bird flu and the bird owner has been quarantined. "The bird should be discarded" you decree. On its wings it conveyed passion, ideas and businesses. A confidant, a pillar it has become. A pillar of support no government parastatal offered. I write that you reconsider for from my little knowledge, no one can cage a bird. It is meant for the skies so let it fly. Yours faithfully, a very lazy youth.
Nigerian government has banned Twitter. I say this with my two hands covering my face in shame. While deaths are occurring thanks to terrorism, all he can think of is banning Twitter because his tweets were deleted.
by candlelight i write a feeling, a tattooed secret onto parchment on its fourth life – it’s simple enough: h███ ██↋█ █f███_ that is all – nothing else is needed. then i sign at the bottom, fold the letter twice, carefully place it in a yellowed envelope, seal it shut – and i feed it to the flame, wishing.
i cannot remember how uncomfortable the chairs at my highschool were – i just know that they must have been so. all those science classes kept both my eyes on the window, lost in dreams of different lives. i thought ‘nobody cares’ was a good reason to erase my problems – mine, not theirs, no, ha! – so i went along with that life (emphasis, though, on the li-e). that’s when i discovered the one way to go: words. stories. a dim, slow lightbulb that caught me unawares. first fearful steps turned to blog posts, then a fantasy tome; short fiction gave way to poetry and recovery. it took me years to know what to be floating on air is – and now this broken english is what i call home sweet home, imbued with the daily gift of a grand discovery: that there are worlds still hiding from me in dictionaries.
Every body is always trying to understand Even to force All of these binary oppositions On everything and everyone But here I am An odd one out I am everything and nothing I am a saint And I am a sinner I am happy And I am sad I am male And I am female I am a child And I am an adult I am dead And I am alive I am everything And I am nothing.