#felix
Sometimes, when night is quite; air was cold
I lay in my bed, lonely st in my head
Thinking things I can't comprehend
Anxiety, Scars, is it Insomia?
Remembering that line, echoing
"It's gonna be okay, I'm right here"
Am I really gonna be okay? I doubt
But I believe to th Voices, no question
"YOU CAN STAY", that's what you'll say
As as long as you want, even when you
Grow Up
Keeping me warm with the big hugs
Cover me, especially in my Silent Cry
In the end I know I will be okay
with The View you showed me the first time
we met
Dainty feelings start to grow, I know it's an assurance
That in my Broken Compass, there is a You
to bring me on track
"Stay" we always say
With your outmost care, you really make me stay
Sep 3, 2025
Sep 3, 2025 at 12:03 PM UTC
Legs astretched like venomous broomsticks
Fangs drooped lazily like a calm nosferatu,
Those eyes gold as sun on styx, treasures
that spun flame between his every blink--
Sandpaper tongue dragged over black hair
Nibbling his own wrist momentarily, then
Locking sleepy eyes on you, ascending fleece--
Retractable moonbeams flex teasing attack
then kneads, falling like a lullaby back into
uncapturable dreams; purring in the spirit of poe.
Jan 30, 2022
Jan 30, 2022 at 3:55 PM UTC
-
_" You have no real sense of meter,
your rhyming is non-existent
and you spell like a brat,
following no rules"_
Rules?
i didnt know i had to follow
any rules, 'cept the ones in my
head that represent limitation
_"Well, you need to read up
on some of the more classic
"recognized" poets—
Learn the Proper Etiquette !"_
Dood,
i have read more than a few lines
of that finer moem-age poem-age,
and if you want to write about why
roses are red on fine sheets of poet paper
with a fountain pen in the fashion of Kipling—
Cool;
i will more likely write about how well Violet _blew_
over the top of a half empty jug of bourbon with
a ball point pen that skips more or less
in the style of Bukowski—
and then someone can say that
we had both written poems
about Colorful Flowers...
© 2020
.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 6:58 AM UTC
Kindirimu maid
By Felix Nnamdi Obiekwe
Morning after morning I wait for her
For she must come from the Plains
Beyond the thousand Sandy dunes
I wait too for her melodious tunes
Composed amidst squeezing and squirting of Udder.
I wait too for her ware, the creamy Kindirimu.
I wait because, without it what else have I got?
She never fails even if the Sahara conducts congress
You must see her adorning her bright skimpy dress
Whether the plains are burning or chilling
There is often a calabash bowl upon her head
And a million accompanying fly's which I suspect
Are more enthralled than I am
This milk maid is a bundle of smiles
The eyes glittering like stars on a hazy sky
Infecting my mood even in miles.
Each time, I behold her I knew that somethings never lie.
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 5:56 AM UTC
Every time I pull it off
it goes off in my face.
It's in my eye and
on my lips,
I look a right disgrace.
My ***** though
she loves it so
I do it all the time
and if I feed her
from a tin
I'd feel it was a crime
because she just loves
those sachets
that I can't pull open
without getting
covered in
gravy
flavoured
splashes.
Poetry by Kaydee
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
Early nineties,
they found a box behind reception labelled ‘lost anatomy’
opens it,
finds his voice.
They took our sounds for granted and crossed the lines ‘till the only thing our lips could do was flail,
they plugged us in with wires but no amps, back into the whitewashed walls and tied us up in graffitied corners, all the places where political shadows do nothing but lull out anaesthetic.
Mocked scenes from final destination,
the one where the subway train collides
encounters America’s tired hum and buzz.
The television upchucks static and we don’t know why it’s still switched on.
A child’s hand reaches out and plucks a seashell from an afro,
tries to hear the sea.
Looping, rippling and losing his rights each time a wave hits the shore.
The invisible nooses around our fingers rifle through an open book.
They told us that that much candy can rot your teeth
and the hand works its way up a room with a view where
tights aren’t tight
but no one ever notices the old man at closing time,
crying at the clocks.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 11:10 AM UTC
even — which burned this hearth
can not break free itself — from
a gin of its own tongue — since
an ember starts from the word "fire"
an opportunity are also promises
will test its own sincerity — on
stirring-fate in a hot cauldron
which vaporized a lot of anxious
"should I believe
on the potion i made — if
that shatter in this frame
is my own fear?"
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 2:59 PM UTC
Wade you are so handsome
A love that's strong and true
Penny is my baby
She comes to me when I'm feeling blue
Logan is my little bear
Chipping, soft to touch
Sally is so close to me
I love her oh so much
Felix is the trouble
He is the one that knocks
To tell the truth I love all my cats
Even if they do steal my socks
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
He was the shadow to my light.
There cannot be one without the other.
No matter how fast I ran to get away,
He was always present.
No matter how close I got,
I could never touch him.
And he could not touch me.
My brightness made him stronger,
But also more likely to slip away any second
Like the early morning fog.
His phantom heart was something I could try to understand, but never fully reach.
We were destined to be side by side,
But never together.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
At incredible heights.
There is an awesome view.
I step out onto the platform.
I look below and see the earth's curvature.
Along with white small puffy clouds with
Oceans, that look like mirrors.
I take a flying leap!
Into the nothingness.
No sound no wind.
Then suddenly!
Gusts of wind hit me as if from a tornado.
The silence has become a roar!
I continue to fall and see
That the clouds have become large and overshadowing.
I continue falling through the clouds.
Suddenly! I see patches of brown and green squares.
I say, "My fast ride is soon coming to an end."
I pull my ripcord,
My parachute opens.
I float slowly down to the beautiful earth.
I have fallen from incredible heights
to incredible lows.
What a rush! ! !
Can we do that again?
At Incredible Heights.
© 2013 - 2014 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC