There are times i would want to tell the world about what goes on inside of me. The drama that my "thought" inculcates is more than the stories of all the hollywood and bollywood + Nollywood movies. Perhaps, i m so certain that sharing em may cause river of tears in so many eyes to flood, and so many people may choose to never talk again. There are so many strange things about my life; though sometimes i try to put them into writting. But most times the words wont just come and i end up with one or two paragraphs of gory and beautiful thought, which cant explain or paint the exact image of what is gyrating inside of me.
Poetry to me is more than life itself. Life do end, but the words in which poetry paints on anybodys' wall may live for a thousand years. How i came about writting and reading can never be remembered. its like a cognitive knowledge-u dont know how it came by. I have written so many poems (long and short), but how i lost them only my past can tell. I have misplaced so many beautiful write ups; some electronically, whereby my desktop would just stop working, and i even lost some to negligence. But all the same, cruelty and love make the heart of a poet think and beat faster...i have learnt to find solace in pen and paper, i was thought to talk less and think more. A friend called me names once and he desired i was dead like a fowl. i didnt confront him either,instead...i put this on a paper with my own tears, drawing every single alphabet.
The world a home
My cloth a thorn,
My self alone
My flesh a bone,
Some years ago
I see thee grows
Some part of me
Make me a owl.
Though,through i go
Miles i crowl.
Thou thought me a fowl,
Here comes the word for my beloved foe.
No comments:
Post a Comment