I was working on a sofa
When across the room’s cushion
Rest the evil man’s eyes
It was pale and poorly partitioned
As if ready to compromise

Right there and then
Thrashing out fumbled ideas
I bumped into a clippety-cloppety pen
And I honestly wrote out his lies
“Appearing appealing are his advances”

The pen wrote as if
It saw my heart in its shades
The eyes looked as tho’
It saw the shades in my heart
And I wrestled as if
It’s my tale to tell period


More wetness on paper
No ebb just flows
Not chirps either but a roar
A whole lot of it!
Causing spines to wreck
And making hearts to yelp!

Wielding a pen that is blood-filled
With a bit of water and a bit of black
Incessantly running, flows and no ebb
Like it’s destiny and I in a cold embrace

The spectators all seated
Giving meaning to every drop
Booing some and applauding some
Holding back tears that want to freely flow

The pen with its owner pulsating
In beats by bits
No ebb just flows

Blood rush, weird high and a pacing heart
Is often the outcome of this one
Unlike the expectant calmness of receding breeze
It’s the tidal rush from the ink, the pen and its left-handed wielder.


If I can get off this bruised rock and write
If I just can pour out the ashes in my heart beneath
If I can go back in time and pen it down
The good, the hurt, the pain, the trauma, the wound
If only I can just get it all in one page
If only I can tell you my story.

If I can tell you of days that kicked-off well and ended with a sigh
If I tell you of countless reasons that made me cry
And I tell you of times I almost asked God “why?”
If I tell you tales of me that seemed like “the end is nigh”
If only I can sunder the phrase “life is cruel”
If only I can just tell you my story.

If I tell you of shames that made me more ashamed
If I tell you of illnesses that made me less humane
Only if I tell you of frights that kept me awake and insane
And if I tell you the dirt that for long was tagged to my name
If only I can wipe-off the “Ifs” and just tell you
If only I can tell you my story.

If I tell you about the odour of the poor
That fills the air each time I walk down the hall
If I tell you what it feels to like what you see
And cannot afford it anyway
If I tell you of the slippers and the patched uniform
And I tell you of the stories that made me seem misinformed
If only I can tell you my story.

If I can just tell you my story
Maybe someone there will be touched
Or maybe someone else will start to judge
Maybe a soul will be blessed and a few be perplexed
If I tell you my story

For now, lemme keep writing still
Let me see if it can still end in a comedy
Let me be still till this story be complete.

For now, I’ll remain on this bruised rock and think
I’ll try to see of this rock what I can pick.

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Folks with tales
Of men that died at battle
Of men that passed while at tea
Of men that went without dotting their last “i”
And of men that solo went with buckets of their own tales

Folks with tales
With their favorite cigar betwixt fingers
Hair peaked as the common tesseract cube
Tattling between puffs
And here the story goes

Folks with tales
Of their own melodies and twists
Of men that kicked the pail
Without impact and leaving no trail
That weakly went in the dead of night

Tales of folks
Peddled by power hungry bottom feeders
Cuddled by greyness and crooked staff
Yet the beating drum and the wriggling smoke
Did voice out their shaded portions

Folks with tales
Arising from once in a distant land
Brief bliss, blooming bond and bad blood
Leaving rhetorics that bewilder even the gods
Folks that dance to the beat of the tales’ end.

A Passionate Zest

I almost became a surgeon
Or let me say, I loved the sight of blood
The beats from a working heart
The pinking kidney
The sudden rush that goes on in the ER
Not leaving out the seamless scalpel,
The fluid-thirsty suction,
The clamps and the very precise drills.
And here I am, still writing.

I admire the aura of peace gotten from war
The strategies and scheming to guard the borders,
To keep the peace and for the greater good
To create peace even while at war
To stay alive having tasted death
I almost became a soldier.

I almost became a barrister
Spurting the constitution like I authored it
Issuing subpoenas like pizza and burritos
Deciding if one was guilty or not
Valiantly defending someone whose genesis might be stained
Anticipating my adjourned dates like they were paydays
Tie on black, black on black
And here I am writing and focused

An engineer I would have been
Meddling with grease not just for its blackness
Tossing off screwed up gaskets
And unscrewing tyres that are fatigued and famished
And of course, just the enthralling feel of the engines
Oh! The engines!
The name alone bringing up spasms of bliss
Electrocuting my bones and giving brief shocks to my tendons

But as a writer I do the sum-up
I jostle between facts and assumptions
And give my admirers something to mesmerize on
Plots and themes, oxymorons and paradoxes
Sweet sensations hopping around joyfully
That ability to wrought miracles just from the ink that flows
Is all I live for, is all I want to be.


Just a Voyager
Rustling through the bulrushes
Hemming the wildest wilderness.

Trees beseeching
The loud silence penetrating
Mountains at attention, ready to retreat

The iguana is sighted with her rigid flute
Anticipated a tattle
Was rather accosted with a rude smile.

The clapping palms of the Venus flytrap
Tickled my ears like another Opera
I turned to see, but alas! The ladybird.

I sort for peace in the strangest of places
But no! The place knows nothing.

The interlude begats somewhat colourful
Having shades of red, green and onion white
Might be a budding Rose or a gasping tulip

And how the sun in holy matrimony
Bonds with barks and dirty soil
Still has me in utter wonder.

The surreal image of the pulchritude leopard
With stretch marks gotten from foreign escapades
A bedazzling sight to run from.

A ballad won’t be suiting for this less awful place
Hums and hums I’ll add to the croaks and chirps