JENNIE IFEATU

My body is a terrain You know the edges How do you poke my soul real deep Touch and clutch it like your hands would never let go I have been doused a couple of times Yet this fire kindles with the force of old wood Pray with me Stay with me Will you recognize me in the dark?  How do I stay in the midst of a crowd yet feel lonely till you walk through Could it be when we hold hands Could it be when my heart dances to the rhythm of your heart                                                                       I don't know a lot of things Perhaps you are a river Permit me to plunge in I will dive in it There is a scent of peace when I 'm here Flick your tongue Is this the taste of freedom? Only you sees this You place your hands on my scars You know the scent of my flaws How else do I define freedom Is this worth dying for?

Earlier this morning I had woken up with a crave for bread. My love love for bread can be likened to that between a dog and a bone. It explains why when I was a kid every time, bread got missing at home, the culprit was always me irrespective of if it had been proven or not.  Yesterday, I was close to placing a bet on finishing a loaf but I had changed my mind because I could not  bear dwaddling like a duck all the way to work because of the heaviness of a full stomach. To my utter disappointment this morning, my bread had become mouldy. So I actually held 'a minute silence' to practically mourn my bread. That's how much I love it. However you have something more valuable than bread that is gradually growing mould. Do you have a talent, dream or skill that you have kept lying low and praying to have mould grow on it? You indirectly wish that! I should have put put a Readers Discretion before this post because this is not for everyone's consumption. I am tr

In a country far away I was raised Cursed is growth Will the younger generation break this oath? That was taken on the altars of sacred weaved deceit Hear our fairytales Not of fairies with tails But of lions who eat cubs Puppies being mauled by giant dogs Question it not. Its a norm Else you 'd be a lifeless form Of how the rain suppresses the beach That its spine is glued and does not toss How feet cause seed to be eternally burrowed into the ground Saving grace has refused to be found Sniff! Sniff! Stale is the smell of our air Water no longer quenches thirst Stunted we are Sunlight burns our sight Will this seed ever sprout? Loud silence would not have us discern vision or sound.