It’s hard to think when there’s so much mess.

So much emotional clutter clouding your thoughts.

You find yourself wading through that crap, the tears, anger, pain and the truama. 

And you wonder if there’s any light or space for progress.

There is, but it’s lost to the clutter. The stuff that creates a din so loud your ear drums bleed.

You want to make space, but what do you clean up first? How do you stop the clutter from reappearing?

Only you know the answer to that.


Sometimes people do things knowing that it would make you get up and leave them. It could be to push you away because they are too cowardly to be bold and say it outright.

No matter, it hurts…

You knew that I would leave.

That I would gather my things under the weight of your inconsiderateness. That I wouldn’t stand for your offer. A weak, feeble one. Broken and lacking promises
That being the lioness I am, I would fight you, ferociously. 
You wanted me to act that way. So it would be easier for you to leave, so that you could say, at least I tried.
I gave it my best. 
I did all that I can.
But we both know you didn’t. When we met, the fire you showed me paled in comparison to how it was in the end.
You would have followed me to the end of the Earth, or I least I thought you would have. You were so real, so tangible, so unlike the rest. And yet you were exactly like the rest.
Pretending you were something else until you couldn’t anymore. And then you stopped, making me believe this was the right thing. It wasn’t working, it made sense, you couldn’t right now.
But it didn’t make sense. It wasn’t you that has cried every night. It wasn’t you that had to delete every single memory or lest I would never stop looking at them. It wasn’t you that had to throw away every single item of clothing because no matter how much I washed it I couldn’t get rid of your smell. 
It wasn’t you that wrote messages and the deleted them and then wrote again, working yourself into a frenzy.
It wasn’t you that felt so low every time we met. Knowing that one day you would forget me. I would finally fall to the bottom of your contact list. I wouldn’t be important anymore.
In fact you, didn’t feel anything. You claimed you did, but it would never be close to mine. It would never be close to the torment I feel of being so close to love and yet so far.
Almost as if it never existed.
And you knew that. 

The Ocean

Hey guys, it’s been a long time. But I’ve been missing poetry and I’ve been craving the feeling of getting my words down. 

So here goes…

When we fall out of love it can be so painful. Here’s my story:

If I could gather all my tears I could fill an ocean. Just for you.

It would be salty, some places sweet. It would be red and the waves would be thrashing violently. But the water would be thick and vicious like. It would be void of fish, only beasts and angry things that lurked beneath the water. 

The plants would be ugly and black. Stubs that never grew but spread outward and lay deep roots. They would mingle with the beasts. Curling around them as they slept.

No one could dare touch that water. They wouldn’t go near it. There would be a large sign, all yee that enter would perish.

They would die instantly, the water would engulf them. They would become dark and gruesome like the beasts. Even smelling the water could kill. The scent pungent and disgusting. Burning lungs and noses.

And I would be in the middle of the ocean, buried deep. Crying and crying, keeping it alive, filling up the vast cavern. Never coming up for air, allowing my dread to surround me.

Kind – Hearted


She cries mostly at night
The wine doesn’t quite taste as sweet
She runs her fingers across the rim of the glass.
It’s snowing outside
But it’s colder in her heart.

The TV has nothing on but she stops
on a clichéd rom-com
A girl is wailing her mascara is running. She’s calling out to someone, a solid back that never turns around.

She stares at the screen blankly.
Although the actress’s feeling mirrors her own
She hears herself laughing.
Not a kind laugh, but a hoarse one
The sort that makes you wince and makes your ears bleed.
She cannot recognise the laugh but it comforts her.

She tips her head back, her laughs become cries. Her own eyes are running and they are pouring out blood
Mingled with memories and seeping in love.

She becomes hysteric, she’s screaming but her voice is leaving her. It’s ripping her throat but it’s not enough. She’s pushing for more but nothing comes out but a croak.
She’s craving for the pain, it’s curing effect. To pacify her anger to satisfy her confusion.

It’s not long before she is totally spent. Giving a world class performance of her own, she’s numb now.
She thinks how cruel love is
How cruel the world is and its soul destroying ways.

But she realises it’s more cruel to be afflicted with a kind heart.

The Interview


The Interview

I sat in this cold room, opposite the crescent shaped table
Four bearing eyes bore into my sweat stained face.
A half moon spectacle perched on a greying nose.
Next, sharp eyes, oceanic blue
Then, a pudgy body, fat fingers but gentle face
And a small wisp of a woman, as unassuming as her booming voice.
I held tight to my folder.
My life’s achievements written.

So how would you describe yourself?

I opened my mouth, like a fish freshly pulled out from the sea. Open close open close.

I knew it, but I couldn’t say. “Ms *blank*, academic, bright, diamond”

But instead I imagined ripping off my pleated skirt pulling at the buttons of my starched blouse.
Pounding at my chest, I am myself.
I am me.

I imagined pulling off my synthetic wig. Aiming for the wicker basket bin in the corner. Fire. Shot.
I imagined kicking off my black loafers. Stretching each stuffed toe one by one. Mesmerised at the tiny sprouting hairs from them.

Next I imagined pulling up the pudgy one, kissing his thin lips. Singing lauryn hill, then India arie. My private party. Shaking my body to an invisible rhythm.
Then movie style pushing all the papers on the large desk, sliding it to the floor. Doing my rusty tap routine from arts school.
Dreaming of being in a circus whilst anguish faces cowered from my outburst.

I imagined, I imagined.
Really, my hands were sweaty,
my words failing me.
I am…

Mouth, still open close
Open close

The Immigrant (Part 1)

The Immigrant (part 1)

*based on a topic very near to my heart and my family, here’s my depiction of a immigrant trying to make his way in an unfamiliar world.

He rubbed his freezing hands together
Blowing in air he hoped to warm them up. Failing in that, he tucked them under his armpits.
Blocking any holes that the cold could seep through.
Under the dawn of a new day the rickety bus pulled up.
He jumped on feeling a wave of gratitude for the steamy windows
The warmer climate embracing in the near empty bus

He nodded to the man on his left.
He pulled his cap to the man on his right.
Walking to the back seats he sat down. Slowly peering at the morning cleaners that made up the contents of the bus.
A woman fidgeting with her blue work apron
And a nodding young man struggling to keep awake.

Our guy pulled out his newspaper.
Flipping past our buxom babe on page 3. Past Liverpools most recent failure. He scans the job page, looking to create job number 5.
Mr Rasheed has increased the rent by a tenner this week and his meagre earnings could only stretch so far.
Ade needed new books and Precious was about to sit her JAMB.

Lost in his thoughts, with electric speed he jumped off the bus at Grosner Road. Lightly jogging to the Marriott hotel he smiles at the stale doorman and makes his way to the caretakers room.

The toilets weren’t too bad this time.
A pile of shit
A eye watering smattering of putrid vomit.
And the complimentary trickle of wee around the men’s cubicles.
He completes them all in two hours, smiling at the other cleaner, Anges. She smiles back turning around to mop he admires her rotund behind reminding himself of the pleasures of sex. It wasn’t until his blackening gold Casio watch beeped at 5:45am that he realised he would be late for his next job.

Running again he makes it to the hilton at 6am. Another stale doorman
Cleaner toilets.

At 8am he sits in the 159 bus. Tired and hungry he makes his way to his full time job. Texting Odun on his Nokia 360, he asks his to save him a slice of toast before he gets there.
“Mike sit there!” A school kid sits clumsily down next to him, gesturing at his friend to sit on the adjacent seat. “Did you do the homework? I’m in so much trouble man I forgot my book!” Our guy marvels at the young boy. His boyish grin, his picky hair and short fat school tie. The school boy natters on with the carefree ness of a satisfied life.

He reaches the gate of Hyde Park, seeing Odun patiently waiting on the bench. “Youre late, longbottom will have you for overtime mehn” he takes his apron from Odun and they walk in together to the park caretakers closet to begin the day.

“Oseyewu, you are you fathers eye. My son you will go far. I believe your journey to England will be fruitful. God is at your back (osa romeyeke) and at your front (osa romindawu) amen! Go in peace”

For de eye da dey cry will still see road.

Old Negro Spiritual


A tiny glimmer of hope sparkles
“Anotha one dead”
She churles.
Almost blind, thick glasses, hands that look like maps and teeth as wide and solitary like broken down tombstones.

My legs folded on the out porch.
I sit at her feet. Ignoring her musings.
‘Just like em old days where they used to lynch em
Not like now. Shot dead middle o’ street. Modern day murder to me.’

I pull my legs in closer.
3rd July 1993 and little Rodney is dead. 5th shooting this year.
Anotha black pearl stolen from it’s oyster.

Shuddering I stand up, leaving granny to keep talkin’ -she couldn’t see me anyway. Blinded by life she’s retreated deep into her self
As if conserving the energy for her makers call.
Again bursting out of withered bones that have seen and heard to much.

“Anotha one dead, ya’ hear that Cecile? Dead gone, wasted him mothers breast milk stollen from her titty. Dead.”

I say nothing in return. Pushing my front door in my living room. I sit on my weathered couch and the tattered rug – threadbare beneath my feet.

He smelt like sweat. What a nasty boy. He used to push me and pull up the girls skirts. I remember him cornering me in the playground.
My heart beating. His sticky out wide smile. He stood ridged a moment. Then feeling too good- whipping out his pencil willy then running off.

First time I ever seen a dick.

His death didn’t ripple the town like they used to. Now everyone familiar with the smell off death. It’s repugnant scent sticking to your clothes. Like old oil it’s hold powerful.
People howled, people mourned professionally. But nobody spoke well of him, as if his death was all that we needed to cry for. He was nasty.

Others, their futures bright. Those they cried. Rolling around, hairs scattered. I just hummed.

The senator promises things will get better. He promises to cut out the poison that rifles through this country. He promises to deal with all those that cause havoc.

But still we dyin’.
They don’t look at us anymore, as if we could hear theirs murmurs of agreement behind closed doors.

I pull on my hand knitted shawl.
Laws of Earth tell us nothing lasts forever.
And a tiny glimmer of hope still sparkles.

Night crawler

Been gone a long time, but I’m back at writing and I hope you guys enjoy it.


She walks straight
Three girls at the front
Two at the back
She’s smiling coyly
A side smile.

She is willing her skirt to be lower
To cover her full round buttocks
But she realises this doesn’t matter
The other girls walk faster and she’s left at the back of them.

It’s almost 12 she thinks. Time to perk up.
They reach the quiet road
A hot spot for their antics
Slowing down they gently slide into their spots with the regularity of familiarity.

She let’s out a loaded sigh.

She notices a girl. Yellowing hair
Brash lipstick and a too wide smile
Eyes that shine. Probably on dope she thinks.
Trying to hard, the punters will ignore her if she’s not careful.

The yellowing girl looks directly at her. She mouths a hi – the other looks away embarrassed she caught her staring.

It hits 12:30 and a tinted merc rolls into the quiet road. All of the girls light up.
Breasts falling out of tube tops
Pot bellies spilling out of micro skirts.

The merc picks a tall one. She leans over and gives an eyeful of her bosom.
A silent exchange and she opens the front door.
Sliding in, driving off, the other girl thinks how civilised fucking men is.
How it is a simple exchange of services.
But a taboo nonetheless.

A more battered fiesta rolls into the road.
Bright again.
This time it picks her.
She leans over. Her golden tank top and full breasts in a crude pink lace bra.

They make a silent exchange

She sighs again.

The Worker Bees


The Worker Bees

Swarms of locusts hover at the large LCD screen. A booming voice calling, as resounding as the Islamic call to pray.
Each grey-suited locust beckoning to the call.
Frantic eyelids and leather bound cases hit each other as people fly to pray.
To pray towards the God of money as it’s seductive calls pulls to the high rise buildings.
As if in a slow film I find myself standing. Tall, full and round
Calm and collect against the rush around me.
Kneading my fingers I sit on a metal bench. Wondering if I will ever make the 9:32 train.
On that day I didn’t want to. In fact I couldn’t. The sight of the human locusts repulsed me.
I was annoyed at their eagerness to throw their youth away.
To forget their passions their sense of love.
I refused to become one.
I felt a light in me I was so sure of.
A brightness that would carry me paway from the grey tide.
And then my train came.
And I got on.