Blue Mondays

I will


You in your sleep

Keep this deep

Feeling of you stealing

Pieces of me

Tucked away buried with you…
Its true.

Hues of blue

Blur out this silent shout:

‘I am stuck on you like glue!’

Dont you have a clue?

This is,

‘I am dreading Monday’

Cause it holds my anxiety

Like my next dreams.

In whose breathes

I get closer to dying.

In trying

To not be less poetic

For this love is toxic.

The topic is that,

Mondays are blue,

Especially those filled

With her crushing on you.

My sky, moon and stars.

I have yearned to align with you

Become a constellation

Of emotion

As I birth our sun

Burning with energy.

Yet gravity

Pulls me back to reality.

Then my muse

Becomes a ruse.

You leave me blue,

Saddened that my pride

Restricts me to tag you anyway.

For the days

She portrays you 

have me hating

Mondays in ways 

I cant explain.

This pain.
Hues of blue

Blur out this silent shout

This ground

Mutes my sound

I found comfort in 

Wanting your face in my book

The inspiration look

That hook that took

Parts of me

Cant you see?

I write books

Of how your face took

Resedence in this heart.

Calm me down

For I drown

Into you

Each day

In each way

I pray

You stay

Mine…but you never

Belonged to me

In any time.
But its true

You are not a crush

So I will not rush

To blush.

Its much more

Its sore

It hurts to the core.


Leave my crown alone!

My hair was never meant to be straightened.
My kinks are my origin. 

They curl, locking in my identity.

I wear this crown not to please you, 

Definitely not to abide by your rules.

My hair is my blackness. 

Unapologetic, unashamed and non of your business.

My hair is not an anomaly or a taboo.

Just because you don’t understand it, 

Don’t mean I should change it for you.
Let me tell you what should change, 

You misconstrued social construct.

That a black person must renounce themselves 

To feed onto your ego.

The fake pedestal you build 

That blackness is something needing change.

That we identify as human when we 

Have adopted your ways. 
This crown, I will wear it. 

Free, untied not hidden.

In your face!

So that you can trace my roots.

In each strand.

I am of plenty and of black.

I do not lack anything.

Leave my crown alone!!! 

#blackhair ✊✌

The skin kin

I am a private person

My skin is the reason

I can withstand any season.

It remains, unchanged, unaltered.

Even though it is seen most often,

it is the shade

which reflects origin,

the roots of where I have been

the song sang by those before me

My skin is not for show,

it is the tone

which echoes home

which resembles my own

the colour that crowns


It is my race,

I do not have to save face

You can trace

where my footprints have made

impacts, in fact, I am a continent,

My seeds have been

planted across the world.

I am an African woman

taught to preserve dignity,

not to display the parts best reserved for my man.

I have learnt to love the skin

that defines me

and I have defied those who

await to drag my identity

by likening it to infidelity.

This skin is me

its us

its a private thing.

And that is the reason

why I am a private person.

Just words

He said  he would immortalize me with ink on paper,
he would water mark his love with tears
And we would forever be.
He said I would see how much love finds 
and cradles, never about how it breaks and shatters.
He painted us on canvas and wrapped me with it.
He wrote me letters about how much, how deep, how further his love was.
And once he opened up into his ocean
of despair I swear he could  not repair
the pain I had, the past that trapped me
into thinking he was my band aid
that he would fix me.
He believed it, I let him.
He said time nor distance could factor him out
that when the stars adorn the sky,
they would form constellations of us.
He said I was not like the others,
was a flower but fragranced differently
And since I was wilting,
I thought dying in him arms would be enough.
He never mentioned how emotions
can come and go
how pain can come and stay
and nothing like apologies would matter.
He drew me in. Into the depths of him,
into the creases of smiles he often so made
And I settled for that.
But it was not me but for the way he sang
to me, watering the seed of love he planted here.
Whose roots are now hard to pluck out
Because he said the same to another
in the presence of my friends
and it my absence, he decalred his love
The same love he promised me.
And he looked into my eyes
just as when shock traveled within,
“They were just words.”
Remember? He writes
about women not me
about places he would go
but not with me
about feelings not for me
about a love known to him.
He chose paper and pens over me.
Over us.
Over all those ideas.
It was Over.
But even though I blame him
for luring me in and me letting him.
I knew they were words too.
Because we are writers.
“I love you” is not something new
or different, or meaningful.
Its just words.

While we dream

Someone out there is weaving a quilt to hide under, become the protector you thought was right.
And some else is trying to get out of imprisoning their mind, that they will never be more.
Somewhere a heart breaks, and healed over time.
Words are said and never meant no matter how much the one they are being said to thinks so.
And soon you’ll be that person too.
So, while we dream, we should be aware of our sanity.
Cause dreams are spices od insanity unless they are made into reality.