One day I will tell my kids the story of how the sun became a weapon burning us to ashes.
how ballute papers were suicide notes as we put a cross next the face we handed out souls to.
how every voter Got crucified in their own crosses.
how Lucifer is the holy one, Africa have became a twisted colony of evil.
But my kids will know
the stories of how we were condemned for complaining after spending centuries of oppression.
They will know how our enemies gave us a religion that said we must forgive our enemies, the irony.
**** it, I will show my kids the ocean, the only grave that took our forefathers during the slavery ships,
since pyramids were crafted in our souls called the triangular trade.
Scientists discovered a heart lost in the bemuda triangle.
far offshore was a man drowning in love
for sure the ocean was Valencia.
a curvy woman, he rose with tides as his hands hope to hold her.
Love is a conspiracy theory formed in the chest like the triangular trade, we are slaves to our hearts. slowly dying in the hands of the ignorant.
in other news
insecurities are like sharks' caudal fins , tipping in our visibilities everytime we hide it.
Love comes when it's least expected.
is it worth it
when we stay all the night
looking at every little thing
but we can’t have
a slight gaze
at the stars
every Love poem I write feels like a suicide note, as I let a part of me find another home.
love articulates a passionate soul caged in my ribs
wrestling with every beat to break free.
Some say if U love a flower don't pick it coz it will die, so I planted mine next to yours.
for the roots to meet beneath the Earth's surface.
Too many demons to face this January, already feels like hell in my brain.
Time to open the gate and let evil run lose.
Too many Angels knocking,
Too many Angels starving, My food for thoughts are always poisonous.
Not enough Time
I'm used to the smell of smoke,
I have watched many bridges burning in my past,
that's why I never heard when my dreams burn to ashes.
all the pages and passion raised by flames carried by wind,
I have inhaled my own death.
the moment I lay my eyes on you,
it was like putting another stone on stomp,
I buried your soul from the first heavy stair
like I'm extracting your innocence,
this is how I became a fisher of men.
Using words to finish what lord made.
All we do is Catch fish.
The mall, Campus even the street are the only occean we live in.
I decided to use a first person narrative, hoping it will be more intimate.