The Skin I’m In

I used to wonderhow I would growand yet still fit in the skin I’m in.If we would grow together,me and my skin.Well, we seemed to have donequite wellfor a long time. I used to wonderhow you would grow,and if you would still fit the skin you are in.And if we would grow togetherand stay intact in…

Prison

How often do I forget that I’m in prison,Bound and in chains,By a devouring monster,That eats up anything good it sees. The monster hates change,The monster doesn’t reason.All the monster wants is what it visions. How often do I forget that I’m in prison,That I’m not supposed to feel,Nor have any emotions, neither a say.Else,…

Midnight Wonder

Head in the clouds, Soul on the brink Of salvation and/or annihilation At any/every moment. The signs in the sky Appear to point out our future in space. The signs in my mind Seek to find the path home to source. But the signs on the street Are marketed for entirely different ends, Singing their…

The Poetry.

The poetry is the deep philosophy of the cry and laugh. It is the unseen language which touches our soul bitterly and joyful. The poetry is the skin of sensibility and the incredible race among the clouds. It is the pouring of the blue sky in our opening hearts. The poetry is the art of the mess …

Count of my Breath

I have been through mazes  and hurt multiple times; The men I trusted Breaking me apart, The wrist’s been cut; And the bleeding hasn’t stopped. This path isn’t expanding, But I am making way to the oncoming, Back’s been patted And my thick hair’s plucked, I ain’t moving But the walls are closing in. The…

Fidget Spinner

The curtains danced as the fan swayed against it. The entire room was empty without a noise, except for its motor. His feet were cold. His eyelids shuttered with the seconds of the clock. The ashtray was filled and he lost count on how many he has had so far. Staring at the plain wall,…

Voice of an Expat. II

Adding these spices one by one I’m recalling the effort you put On the messy yet beautiful days You taught me basic cooking, Ma. He’s at work and I’ve kept rice to boil, I can’t tell you I feel lonely but I am Remembering those days, I was obdurate About how much I hated staying…

As an African child.

As an African child I crawled on my mama’s arms Searching for an imaginary house Which bore me with a fancy view Of the passing clouds upon my head. As an African child I jumped many times of seeing the clown Who laughed and cried Making jokes Acting an excellent spy With many children in…

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