The Writer’s Pen

  The things we do for the likes and clicks, Anything to feel chic and liked. Be a slay queen, Sexy and sleek. Tear the covers of your royalty To feel royal. Smile to the mirror, Act like a hero. A little closer— Chakam. Another shot,  But it’s short of who you really are. So where’s the real you at?

  I feel I am ugly, So I see the beautician, A doctor to heal my heart Powder here, Powder there. Turn right, Yep! The angle’s right. Multiple shots, Multiple checks, Short of perfection. Another paint to my face, A touch here, A rub there. But this surgery tears my heart; It exposes the corpse that trails my thoughts. Can’t I fix this mirror or what it sees? can’t I fix its sight with gloss or multiple takes Can’t the camera fix this broken me? I stand facing the mirror, Hands over my ears, Shutting out the sound As a thousand voices echo my ache. I let out a scream, Punching the mirror off its rim, Because in its blindness I see light; And as its broken pieces drop, My heart eases to a beat. Because though we are many before this broken lens, I I am one evolving stream.

  My bag is blue and pink, like a sycophant singing praises of boys and girls. My bag is a hypocritical array of shade, can’t be trusted to fit one gender. Its wide mouth opens to swallow pieces of fabric thrown in like cellmates. But when you try to find them, a puzzle forms you cannot unwind. Only by pulling out one piece at a time can you find the one piece of fabric you need. My bag is beautiful and functional, but sometimes it scares my blood pressure, just thinking how I’ll search it for a cloth I threw in once.

Black nylons feel like a walk through the valley of the shadow of death, like the darkness on nights the moon sleeps. It’s like the mind of the devil on a constant k. But at the end, this is a mere tale of black polyethylene bags.

My bucket holds my water for bath. Precious little bucket. It measures how many tiny water drops Can stray down my skin When I take a chilling cold bath. My precious bucket. It stores liquid likened to life. How do I live without it? The reason I cook, clean, and drink Even when my tap takes a break. It never strolls with me When I move from land to land. But when I am back home, I smile to see its sturdy frame Holding water for that refreshing bath The kind that whispers, Welcome back. Such steady loyalty. I cannot forget my precious bucket. Its thoughts tug at my heart— Mostly when the tap breaks Or starts its race. I never forget to feed it full With cool, sparkling water, Because I love my little sturdy bucket For the water it holds for me. Don’t judge my little bucket love. It thrives on use. Isn’t this a ruse?🤔 And is this me… or even you To those we “love”?

 I have thought of how to fit the letters To build you a world of words, Let the world know your worth to me- A tiny show of gratitude For your attributes and attitudes. But each time I try, My mind freezes like a movie on pause. But you see today? Na by force o! Ink must flow. Pen go kiss page. Letters go form stage, And my words go sing your fame. My mouth go form talking drum; Your praise must enter ear- Why dem no go hear am? So get ready, Because poetry will sway to the beat of my heart for you— For you’re a beaut, true and true. Even TikTok go talk am: Say your beauty pass talk, E pass face. Na the faith wey you carry for the people wey you carry for heart; Na how you carry body like ant, Dey work like elephant; You no dey flop. When show no dey for you, You still dey show for men dem. Your confidence strong pass gravity; E dey drag attention. When you climb your heels, E dey be like say you fit grind ground. This one pass vibes o. Shay you be sister solo? ’Cause you dey wise...

They called me leader. So, like a butterfly, I evolved, This unknown just to me, Leaving old skins behind. I flew past old ways. I denied my ways. I knew, I didn’t get involved for these— New shifts, But these Are the perks and pains— Kisses of service That stain your heart With pretty shades of Patience, Strength, and Love. Leadership. Like lathers of soap, It washes You of you, You of yours, Cripples This ladder of yours— The pride you thought you’d climb. As leader, You are Everyone’s, And none of yours— Servant of all, Father to all. And here is the beauty of it all: You become Like Him, called All-in-all.

A pounding head, Craving rest— But it eludes me. On for days, Off some days, Yet it rises Like a volcano erupting. Now aching eyes, A tongue tasting ill, A rumbling belly— Thunder before rain, But just my stool rains. I stagger like a drunken man, Weak bones, Aching feet. My blood is drunk on plasmodium. Malaria crying for pills. So I peel a Bible page, And take in pills Of Word, hymns, and faith. Now, I am healed!