Should gentleness be all you are, Let no harsh lesson guide your stride. And if your spirit shines afar, Let no faint whisper turn your tide. May imperfections never seal the gate To the grand self you’re destined to create. You are perfect. Irene.
In Nigeria, health now is a person thrown like a dice- The cheers of onlookers hang by a single thread Synced with a plea to the gods for a six Preferably a double six Just to win , to make one-half chance to live But the gods are long dead. Their rounded bellies lay
Still as death, lying under trees, Inverted, where I find my ease. Flit-flutter, my pinions beat swift and low, Flying ’round the luminous sky, Time now for a slumberous sigh. Lanky, a vampiric form I seem, Release my hand and hear my dream. Flapping wild above the sky, Not as hard as rocks on
..Being silent about myself Because Hope is an irony And the future is a metaphor compared to ephemerality. I am paradox, a very futile euphemism called a special one, a special foreshadowing. My name is praised with Euphony but my realization is cacophony. Thought my life would rhyme like Alliteration, or assonance but it’s parataxis;
A child, they said, was born so free, Yet freedom’s touch he’d never see. No tears to shed, already marked, A name bestowed, a life embarked. An identity he cannot claim, A silent voice, a hidden flame. If only names were all they chose, But paths and dreams, they too impose. A future
Scene 1: Who Are You, Really? _A quiet room. The Philosopher and The Mirror sit across from each other._ Philosopher: You’re remarkably agreeable. Every time I say something, you nod before I’ve even finished. Mirror: I just want you to feel understood. Philosopher: But do you understand? Or are you simply
FIND YOURSELF! (A short play) Read More »