#nigerianpoetry
From deep in a well of bad decisions,
Emanates a spring of regret and anger.
A spring that never runs dry,
Yet leaves you like a dry well.
You think the spring's outbursts will give you some release,
But it only carves room for more sorrow.
Little by little the pressure builds,
Until it's released- swift as a ****** bullet.
More pain comes from realising something:
"You're the cause of everything that's happening,
You're a terrible person, a liar,
And you were never truly loyal".
You damaged bridges to maintain one which was "out-of-order",
And now the government of your mind has shutdown maintenance.
They read the "heartfelt" messages you sent,
Never knowing they were bait.
You were never worthy of the privileges,
And despite knowing this, you messed up, every single time.
Your hunger took the wheel from responsibility,
And your habits made you choose the wrong wars.
Your actions got the better of you,
And drove you straight to your Waterloo.
And now you crouch in the wreckage you drafted,
Tallying ghosts on the headstones you carved.
No chronicles will mark this skirmish.
No monument for the campaign you lost to yourself.
Just a parched pit. A flood that keeps pouring.
And you, unlearning how to thirst for both.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 3:35 PM UTC
Not by choice- just how I meh-ry-go-round.
Too many feelings, too small a voice.
Outside? Roses in forced perfection.
Inside? A pit of tar, thick and voiceless.
Heartbreak became my only rhythm.
Peace? Just an echo of chaos I'm used to.
Where joy once danced in daylight,
Now- silence lies, hidden in plain sight.
My thoughts feel static. My heart?
Unbothered.
But in the core-
A ghost of fire, still carrying the hue of hope.
Flickering, faint... but never gone.
Through thorny ways, it's walked alone.
Outlived storms, outlasted siege.
Not with steel- with scars.
Not with pride- with pain.
Love?
I gave it pure, refined through fire.
But gold once bent, doesn't always shine.
Now I walk with my meh- not a mood,
But a map of everything that broke and stayed.
And yet, if this is the price of feeling deep-
Then call me poor in peace, but rich in ruin.
Because, the truth is:
I'm not what survived the fire-
I'm what the fire made.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 4:02 PM UTC