thoughts of her haunt me like ghosts of past lovers
cuddling loneliness and tears under covers, making love
portions drawn from the memories, the taste of her lips
the smell of her perfume, the color of her eyes
follow me like trolls on twitter.
They say what doesn't kill you makes you better, or maybe just bitter
cause I never knew anything sweeter
sugar, honey, babe...her words now ring hollow in my ears
trapped in this valley..they echo my fears
of being alone
i would rather be alone than lonely
in her company
drawing dividends from false statements and hopes
for a future that does not exist.
PSA from my brain to my heart, RESIST
from falling in love
if you can't handle the pain from hitting the floor...
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
I fell for her eyes, the windows to her soul
drew back the purple shades and got lost in nirvana.
They gleamed like stars on a backdrop of darkness
shining like beacons to the honesty of my affection.
Her smile gave me strength like a silver full moon
beauty and the beast.
Ignorance was bliss
to the fact that all love tales end in tragedy,
she became the poison to Romeo’s demise
the dagger to Othello
the poisoned wine to Claudius
the razor that shaved off Samson’s hair.
You can never change the wind
when it blows over dung, a wise man holds his nose
and with the weight of the world on my shoulder
I sought an atlas
to seek the corners of the earth
for the mastermind terrorist whose arrow
had my heart crashing like the Twin Towers
with gravity as his able accomplice.
This coldplay on Delilah’s shoulders
leading the symphony to death and all his friends
where once was yellow.
mate with the reaper
so till death does me depart
wake me up when September ends.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
These tears were words my heart could not express
hiding the sorrow behind a mask of bravado and masculinity.
They say the apple does not fall far from the tree
a refuge from the harshness of reality
shade from the scorching sun in this African Savannah.
In the words of the priest
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust"
in this cycle of life death is a must.
But at times the Grim Reaper strikes too soon
to cut down the tree before the birds have learnt to fly.
We were meant to soar high like eagles
yet are left to wander below like kiwi.
I guess every teardrop is a waterfall
and each poem a eulogy to a fallen hero.
Real men don't cry
but boys must cry for their fathers.
"In loving memory of Job.O.Mola"