​I don’t believe in endlessness

The stars and sky are cohorts 

All complicit in the lie

I don’t believe.


I mean look at her.
Full of life

Love in all it boundless limits 

Still bound

Less and lessened by all the limits
Dead man walking 
Strutted on a platform disguised as a bridge

The wind will blow sands and pass time

The grasses will grow watered by muddy rains 

But you will walk with no respite 

Dead man walking 

Drowning is a muted dance.

All struggle is gyration with the right music.

Walk your path

Stars will always shinedown

Paths will always lead to places

But don’t believe in their lies

Nothing is endless 

They all end in a blurry line like this.

Pop. 20:58 hours  26/05/2017.

Etchings, Monologues

beLIEve 

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Etchings, Monologues

Thought Art

Some kinds of pain you can only cry about.
You see
to talk about it
you must touch it
Feel the surface
Pierce your skin
Attempt to straighten the creases
And find that it wasn’t rumpled
Infact it was too plainly spread
Trying to make sense out of it
Would be a pain full stretch.

Some kinds of happiness you can only hope for
You don’t see
To think about it
First you must handle pain
Feel it’s insides
Tendons and ligaments, bone for bone

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Some art no one can ever teach your heart
Like to make caricatures
The intricacies
You fake it
You make it
But If you’re lucky you truly learn

That
The only real things about anything are the thoughts you have about them.
Pain, happiness, the like
It’s all you in your mind
Own the art
Wield the pain
Conjure your happiness
Maintain balance

This ought to be an easy poem about really hard stuff.
You’ll see.

Pop
Ndo
8:05am 2/8/16

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Uncategorized

For Someone.

No one plays with broken dolls
If you like runaway from the playground bawling you heart out
No one will run after you
Don’t play yourself

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No one climbs real mountains for fun
If you like walk away from the market counting your money
No one will run after you
Don’t play yourself

No one cleans tears for fun
If you like keep transparent crumbs for them to follow
No one will run after you
Don’t play yourself

Everybody is no one
And No one accepts they’re everybody
If you say you are someone
Don’t play yourself.

G.
11/07/16

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Etchings, Monologues, Musings, Tidbits

Fear. Bother. Worry.

I bother about the other “yous”.
You know…
The you that you are with them
The you that you are with the different “shes”
The you that you get to be when you are not with me
I bother about you getting settled into being a certain way with me

Not every time baby boy some times lover
Not everytime bae sometimes father
Not everytime paddy sometimes friend
Not everytime brother sometimes babyboo
Not everytime trouble shooter sometimes goofball
Not every time boyfriend sometimes toaster
Not everytime forever sometimes now

Then I wonder why I bother
Bother has never and never will do much
It won’t change the fact that trust is a must-do
It has never changed anything not even the tomorrow’s weather
If only it burnt fat it would really be useful for something
So I stop myself and write about bother
And avoid the use of “fear” and “worry”
Because we all know they are bad abi?
See what I did there? Yes.

P. S. : Don’t get comfortable doing something you know you shouldn’t be doing by calling it another name. Cease and Desist.

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Another Monologue

Do you ever feel like coiling yourself around a human being and soaking in and imbibing their smell, the gritty essence of it. Everything.

Do you ever crave that feather light pressure of fingers leaving your skin and replacing themselves on another body part. Finger by finger. Light grip.

Do you ever want to taste sweat. The salt of it. The humaness of it. From living breathing skin, licked of the face. Freshly shed.

Do you ever fancy the humidity created by the warm mix of your freshly minted carbon dioxide and that of a presently useless but potential cadaver? Imperfect limbs that twine and unwind in the crevices of your cinnamon rolls and honey coloured flabs of fat.

Do you ever want to be with a being so badly you fake that your want is real? Be real.

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Who would want anything to do with you?
Who would know what to do with you?
Mad people’s form of physicality
No sex
Just hugs and kisses.
Die with your selfish intimacy that nobody wants abeg
Who do you want to kill with blue balls
No, really who?

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Untitled Pop

P. S. :
An Untitled Pop is a poem that popped up and the perfect title didn’t. Lol… So if you read this and it makes some sort of sense to you feel free to drop your suggestions on what you feel it should be titled in the comments section. Daalu.

➡ “insert title”

Today was a very draining day.
I can feel everything like it’s in faded filter.
The laughs and the smiles are livid
But Still in filter
Too many feelings bursting at my rib cage like bats
Black and blind in light
Hanging upside down
Waiting to take flight

I don’t know why she starved her body today.
Maybe to see if there could be a vivid throwback of any of the pain
You know how sometimes it’s only easy to forgive because we’ve forgotten how we hurt.
Maybe that’s why it’s forgive and forget
Because the mind struggles to forget more than it struggles to rememeber.
That time and that other time
The deep crack in the tar on the street in the night.
And remembering is important but with out forgiving it’s just like opening the face of a wound that just dried.

Noisy silence
Knackered limbs
A collage
Of thoughts so many it’s a black canvas
But what better to paint on
Sleep must be happy whenever it comes.
Just take it today was draining
To say the least at most.

11:49 31/03/…how odd.

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Etchings, Monologues, Musings

Quiet in noise.

Noise
Quiet noise in the middle of the crowd.
How can one seriously miss the existence of one human being thus
So perfectly bad for you
So healthily toxic
Deep seemingly unwise foolishness

Muted throngs of broken winged words
At a loss for blood to bleed.
Some things happen to you that shake the beams that uphold your sane existence.
Infact you must have died
What else explains the ensuing numbness

Pain in stealth mode
It hurts
Then it doesn’t
It stops
And just leaves this garrish gaping hole in the fabric of your existence.
Faux Marring the motif
Empty hungry echoes of insatiable questions.

Breathe.
Blink.
Repeat.

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To be continued.

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