Determinism. It's science.

Imagine a nearly infinite number,
Of domino pieces standing on end.

The big bang tipped over the first one.

I bent my mind like a bamboo tree to experience the fragrance of her soul, and in return, I received a bouquet of flowers sprinkled with the earthly happiness of love. She opened her rosy heart for me to smell and share until the rain as soft as tears, wiped the imprints away forever. Even the splash of golden sunlight, trying daily to flood the void of my stolen heart, could not succeed, for the wound was larger than anything that could heal.

Petals fall and fade,
heart once bloomed socked in the rain,
wounded heart still ached.

Listen,
poems read
differently
when you're close to the poet

Listen,
run your hands
across my pages
caress the dents
feel the depth in some
and the lightness in others

Listen,
come closer
place your ear
on my papers
listen to the waltz
my pencils do
with every
stride, every curve

They built it bright, a sterile gleam,
A castle made of plastic dream.
A hollow cheer, a brittle cheer,
To soothe the wound and mask the fear.

They offered tales of tidy grace,
Of heroes' smiles and soft embrace.
A ribboned truth, a candy lie,
To pacify, to pacify.

“Look away,” the voices purr,
From streets where shadows still confer.
Where rusted chains refuse to break,
And lives are lost for comfort's sake.

They preach of joy “just waiting there,”
As if despair were just thin air.
As if injustice fades away
If we just wish, if we just pray.

But plastic cracks beneath the sun,
Illusions melt, the seams undone.
What good are dreams that flee and wilt,
When castles stand on rot and guilt?

The optimist, a gentle fraud,
A balm for those who never ****.
Who sip on hope, a fragile brew,
And think that myths are somehow true.

Yet fires rage where truth won’t bend,
Where hollow comforts cannot mend.
No glossy page, no fairy dust
Can heal a world that’s built on rust.

So burn the plastic, tear it down,
Face the ashes, face the frown.
For only truth, unvarnished, raw,
Can light the way, can break the flaw.

No stories glossed with empty bliss—
The work awaits, and it is this:
To strip the lies, to crack the mold,
And forge a world that’s just and bold.

Y  - Yummiest, his tongue says.
A  - Amazing man, whom listners admire.
M - Magically majestic in football commentary.
L  - Listeners glisten as they listen to him.
A  - An artist that aesthetically vocalises pleasing
S. - Saintly, a spirited angel for Hausa football commentary.
H - He who has no resentments, envy, or enmity.

The day is either
your truth or your lie:
nothing in-between
no else beside

Hello Stranger!

Let me tell you what just crossed my mind:
When you love somebody, you give a piece of your heart, never expecting it back.

If it’s protected, good—you’re happy.
But if not, stranger,
there’s a missing piece, a tear, a wound
to make your heart grow bigger.
So darling stranger
here you gotta a big heart, a pleasant aftermath  

Even pain has its own kind of art—an acquired taste, unique in its appreciation.

So, cheers to the tears and wares, stranger!

Or—if this is utter nonsense—perhaps,
stranger,
we could try not to be strangers
for, say, four decades and some more—if that's an option?

I want to lay my head
On a woman's warm lap—
To feel her soft lips
Against my chapped own.
The pink and purple sky
Glowing against her hair
In a garden full of violets
I'll wander with her someday...