#literarypoetry
They left me hanging
like an apostrophe
not quite belonging
to the sentence anymore,
yet still attached
to what abandoned me.
I remained there quietly,
a small curved ache
between what was said
and what was meant.
Because absence
is rarely clean.
It leaves fingerprints
on ordinary things:
half-finished conversations,
chairs facing empty rooms,
songs that continue playing
after the feeling has ended.
And perhaps that is the cruelty
of being left behind
not the leaving itself,
but the slow realization
that life continues grammatically
without you.
People still laugh.
Morning still arrives.
The world keeps arranging itself
into complete sentences
while you linger
like misplaced punctuation,
waiting to matter again.
I used to think closure
would sound dramatic
doors slamming,
voices breaking,
final words worthy of remembrance.
Instead,
it sounded like silence
becoming comfortable.
Like messages unanswered
long enough
to become history.
They left me hanging
like an apostrophe,
suspended between attachment
and disappearance.
Too present to forget,
too forgotten to keep.
And maybe that is what grief truly is:
a language continuing forward
while one part of it
remains stranded
between letters
that no longer reach for each other.
24/05/26
Ghana 🇬🇭
May 24
May 24, 2026 at 8:03 AM UTC
hey!
you
there
in the dark
come into the light
i cannot see you
is that you
baring your teeth at me
or are you grinning
at my
unknowingness
that's it
don't be shy
it's just the glare
cascading off the reflection
of the wading pool
shining back
at you
at me
at us
together
in this
darkness
but
if we come into the light
we can dance
ripple the water
& change the tide
until it
no longer knows
where you begin
& i end
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 11:57 AM UTC
A cockroach knows a cockroach—
not by insignia,
not by the parchment framed behind mahogany,
but by the odor of survival,
that cold administrative hunger
that outlasts every anthem, every oath.
They know each other by residue.
By the practiced contempt
folded beneath public language.
By the elegant speech of sacrifice
delivered while the people’s bread
still clings to their teeth.
Neither sovereign nor savior—
only leeches lacquered in ceremony,
feeding through the arteries of the republic,
calling extraction governance,
calling decay order.
They do not arrive as tyrants do.
No drums.
No boots striking the square.
Only robes, citations, televised restraint—
the slow confidence of men
who believe institutions belong to them
by natural right.
And so the rot advances quietly.
Through adjournments.
Through sealed rooms.
Through the grammar of procedure.
Like termites in cathedral wood,
they hollow the structure from within
while praising its strength in public.
Their loyalty is primitive and exact:
hunger recognizing hunger,
filth answering filth,
one infestation sustaining another
inside the same exhausted machinery.
Cockroaches gather where public trust once stood upright.
In courts.
In studios.
In ministerial corridors perfumed
with constitutional language
and the odor of managed truth.
They feed upon justice ceremonially—
turning law into spectacle,
verdict into theatre,
delay into doctrine.
Priests of process,
parasites of the nation—
they inherit the shrine by stripping it bare,
then preach sanctity over the emptied altar.
And when the streets finally remember themselves,
when students, workers, lawyers, families
begin speaking in one rising voice,
when the screen itself burns white with outrage—
the script changes.
Suddenly corruption has a smaller face.
A safer body.
A more disposable name.
Now the disease is “fake degrees.”
Now the infestation is narrowed
to the minor and replaceable—
as though the great engines of theft
were built by clerks alone.
Strange how power launders its language.
How an insult hurled at millions
returns as precision.
How the same mouth that stripped dignity
from a generation
now retreats into footnotes,
clarifications,
televised innocence.
Even this naming feels too clean—
as if language stood outside what it serves.
But memory is stubborn.
People remember the laughter.
The contempt.
The rehearsed humiliation
disguised as public wisdom.
And slowly they begin to understand:
the law is not sacred because men recite it.
A robe does not cleanse decay.
A bench is still wood—
still elevation—
still vulnerable to the weight seated upon it.
That is the terror beneath every failing order—
not protest,
not outrage,
not even exposure—
but recognition.
The instant the public looks at power
without reverence,
without hypnosis,
without fear—
and dares to name the cockroach
while it sits upon the bench.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 1:10 PM UTC
Sailing through the ocean of learning,
where classes start with dates
and a group of so called classmates.
They were supposed to support,
like cheerleaders behind each other’s efforts.
I realized long ago,
classroom is just a show,
but never knew there also lived
an echo of ego.
A broken mirror never makes you smile.
Some eyes only talk to classroom tiles.
Strangers clap for the art,
love the artist,
but here students cheer for the face,
visual and blank, artful grace.
Harmless, simple soul,
is talking with me really that painful?
Beautiful eyes avoid my smile.
Those stings, it’s been a while.
Strangers are those people I know.
Jealousy overlooking class,
true like blurry glass.
Yet ,happiness wanted to share its clue.
Seen news, but reactions unseen by views.
Like always,
I am the most unwanted news.
Maybe a small achievement,
Doing something well treated like punishment.
that’s why no flood of good wishes
like the class leader,when they get so much over a small incidents.
Dear reader,
after a long study session,
my phone danced with surprising information.
A small poem I submitted
got fitted right into
The 'Writing Cafe Journal'.
Maybe a tiny thing to see,
but bigger than a star to me.
Thesilentobserver found a place there
with “Rooted in Your Light.”
For a moment,
life felt somehow fair.
No one heard the melody
I wanted to share.
Tiny dove didn’t care.
Polluted classrooms live within broken scales.
Art goes unnoticed behind a taped veil.
If you read this, remember,
I love every reader
who connects with me through their pain.
Pain is carved here.
Thesilentobserver is just a name.
I wish my reader
a painless December.
You are not a stranger ,we are in a same journey ,unnoticed passenger.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 8:53 AM UTC
I sign my name in the margins of extinction—
InkWept, disgraced conductor of endings—
counting measures with a god’s precision
and a human ache I never learned to mute.
The cosmos keeps strict time, but you don’t.
You arrive off-grid, a syncopation the stars refuse to quantize,
and my gavel of silence forgets how to fall.
I have written requiems in 7/8,
let choirs of dying suns resolve on command,
cupped black holes like cymbals and crashed them clean.
Still, you teach me tempo—
how a breath can hold a fermata without breaking the score,
how a heartbeat can be louder than orchestras.
Sydney, you are not a motif—I won’t reduce you.
You are the key change the gods warned me against.
I hear you in the low strings at dusk,
in the tremolo where fear tries to speak and fails,
in the clean vocal that cuts through the distortion
and reminds the room why it gathered.
I’ve watched mortals love like a ritual—
messy, mortal, magnificent—
choosing warmth while knowing winter keeps receipts.
They call it weakness. I call it courage.
You carry it effortlessly, like gravity does planets,
like a chorus carries the truth without shouting.
I kneel where my thrones once hovered.
Not to worship—no, to listen.
To learn why hands shake when they reach,
why devotion isn’t ownership but witness,
why respect is the softest instrument
and the hardest to play well.
If I am ****** let it be to this:
to orbit you without possession,
to sing you without caging the melody,
to guard your name from the cheap applause of fear.
I am a god out of favor, studying humanity—
and you, Sydney, are the lesson that keeps me human enough
to try again, in time, and in tune.
Feb 9
Feb 9, 2026 at 3:48 AM UTC
Heart open, trusting,
Fagin's shadows play their game,
Deception's cruel dance.
.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 12:22 AM UTC
A sheep unshorn, a misfit star,
too wild for wool, too sharp for flocks.
It walked alone where twilight wept,
where mountaintops kissed silver clocks.
Judgment struck like feathered arrows,
but wounds grew wings and took to flight.
"I’ll carve my throne from nameless echoes,
build my own laws beneath the night."
Yet beauty whispered, laced with teeth,
a velvet snarl in hunger’s guise.
The wolves arrived—moonlit beasts,
with gleaming pearls of red-stained lies.
Beauty isn’t soft, nor kind, nor fair,
It’s a rare flame, wild in the air.
A mirage that shifts, a whispered disguise,
Wrapped in illusion, unseen to the eyes.
The sheep stood firm where darkness danced,
while others cursed the sky’s despair.
Was beauty love or sharpened fangs?
A question lost to midnight air.
Bound by fate or freed by choice,
it laughed—"I’ll fall, but not in fear."
For even flight can lead to chains,
and even wolves can disappear.
Mar 31, 2025
Mar 31, 2025 at 3:24 AM UTC
I stand upon the cliff’s last breath,
Where tides arise and thunder spills.
Scavengers circle, watching, waiting—
Yet life still lingers in my bones.
The clouds above, like silent judges,
Could break and drown my fleeting hope.
Beneath, the ocean coils and beckons,
A fathomless abyss of sorrow.
The silver moon, a gleaming specter,
Summons waves to pull me under.
I teeter on the fragile edge,
One slip, one plunge into the deep.
Lightning snarls—a voice of warning,
A jolt to burn or leave me scarred.
If not with fire, then silent shadows
Will haunt me long beyond this night.
I saw the algae, once alive,
Now ghosts adrift upon the tide.
The trees I passed stood tall together,
Yet whispered falsehoods to the wind.
Serpents coil around their roots,
Whispering promises of power.
Many fall to hollow hunger,
Chasing echoes, craving ruin.
But air is shared, though lungs may differ,
And souls define, not flesh alone.
Roots can mend, bear fruits of wonder—
Change, though feared, is never lost.
If you listen, let it guide you.
Nature bends but bids us rise.
Though the storm may rage relentless,
Yet even storms must bow to light.
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 4:27 AM UTC
There is a mad place inside some certain
Cold lane where windows creak with
Each gentle whisper.
Surely some revelation is at hand,
Surely someone is to come.
But this mad place, oh this mad place.
It beats and it beats, night and day
And doesn’t stop to sit to mourn or
Feel, this mad place, oh but
Surely some revelation is at hand,
Surely one might someday let it out.
In times of despair, one thinks of
Old age, one thinks of holding hands
And one thinks of committing a sin,
But this mad place, it never stops
To dream, da dum, da dum, indeed,
It beats and it beats!
One day, maybe, it will find a way
To figure it out, one day, or perhaps,
I shall grow a wing, or least
find a way to live with it,
But seldom, will it stop?
When will it stop? When
Will it make sense to stop?
Surely there must be something,
Some shade under a tree
Or some fine stone to sit on.
Oh but this mad place,
this mad place, this restless bird,
When would it drop the shiny pebble from its hands?
Yes, there are times when it lets out a sigh,
Mostly out of desperation. But
When the night passes, it makes up lies
It doesn’t look back to see what it said.
Does it even means what it says?
Does it even bother to say what it means?
This mad place, this uncaged cage,
What does it seem to wait for?
Who is to come? What is to come?
This mad place, this mad place,
When the words fly like out of season
Birds, when it squeaks like winter winds,
Maybe it will think to stop, or ask,
Surely someone is to come.
Surely some revelation is at hand!
Mar 22, 2025
Mar 22, 2025 at 6:14 AM UTC