​Girls Like You

Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me.

They end up with trust-fund womanizers,

Society weddings and genteel emptiness.

And when their entitled husband’s mistress,

Get dealt a bitter blow by their hands, they wonder

What has happened to the little girl

Who once tamed fire and rode winds

Of ideals and improbabilities.

Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me.

We get to settle eventually, for and from,

Playing the familiar roles while charting

Courses for upward mobility of family.

And when vicissitudes deals a new blow,

We dig deep from the base of your memory,

Fuelled by the knowledge of this moment,

Buoyed by light of your smile.

 

Girls like you don’t end up with guys like me.

So allow me to be the fool for a second and dream,

Basking in the aura of your essence and being,

Wishing for a convergence of mutual feelings.

And if by chance we meet, at the airport

Or boardroom or at the next society wedding,

We nod and sigh internally at what never was,

You, me and us.

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The Pilgrim

The grim reaper laughs at the pilgrim,

Grim-covered exterior mirror for rotten core.

The vultures laughs at the country,

Grim-covered exterior mirror for rotten core.

Fleas, flies, lice in a perpetual Christmas as

Sweat and tears beads trickle down his spine.

Jackals and Hyenas in eternal feast as

Proletariat begin again, nightly pilgrimage to fuel station.

Prayer for my Unborn Children

May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true,
May you always do for others
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
And may you stay forever young,
May you stay forever young.

#WCW: @HMemuna (If I was a writer)

If I was still a writer,

I would write about her.

Her svelte gracefulness as she

Knit words on my TL. Tapestries

Of Ideas, Ideals and Ideology.

If I was still a writer,

I would write about her.

Her wry smile, promising

Matriarchal-marinated mischief.

Modern Womanism fleshified.

If I was a writer,

I would write about her.

Her eyes like diamond spheres,

Glimmering globes in a sea of

Placid black lustrousness

But I’m no more a writer.

I can no longer write sonnets to,

Nor Haikus about my crush.

All I can do is stare and blush.

Thinking if I was still a writer.

Thinking if I was still a writer.

Damphair (Poem) — By Yemi Ajala and George RR Martin

And the deep says,

The Only way I can

Stay Sane is by being shallow.

And the saint says,

A lion and a Queen

This is not your dream,

So you let me go;

That cold night with stars above,

Joy left my soul.

Love is a lie

Love is a lie

Love is a lie,

Love is a smoke.

Searching For Nirvana

Like the stray hen searches
Scratching earth with tetra-tentacles
Scavenging for bits here, pieces there
Like the rain water seeks

I will write….

*Bursts open his archive and pastes an old poem..about his old self*

Few things I pray for

One is to be marooned on open sea

In a small boat with two oars

Being my country, state and city

Away from all humanity

And its accompanying bestiality