"OUTPUT OF A THINKING WRITER" By: David O. AKANO

Someone stopped loving (me) because I write, because her mother said I cry alone with my pen shedding the tears, that I am a free bird with a free birth and no recognition, no celebration only tears of ink.

Someone stopped believing (me) because i spice up my words and weave my meanings amidst my voice and not because I drive my car, build my house on the structure of white and materials of black and/or blue. That I only sleep on the railing with a big dream of myself flowing in high places.

Someone ceased trusting (me) because I can only thrust the end of my weapon on paper and make people blush and not bleed. Claiming that I'm not competent to hold a sword of two edges not to talk of the one with four edges. She stopped trusting my sorry because I've spoilt her with it coming from different genre of sorry's and majorly because I write.

Then someone pleaded (with me) that I should spring forth and do the right thing, claiming that when the time comes, I will be what I've got to be. That i should try and employ letters from Hey to Zeed then send on errand all around the globe that my writing shall be the tax payer and my passion will be the way paver.

Who am I to bank on??
What am I to think of??

Comments

DREAMS OF A perfect FAMILY VANDALISED BY A FAKE IFA PRIEST

Who is man to God? Who is God to man How much distance do our prayers cover by land? In relation to our circumstances and time What does man think of what he sees? And what does God see of what man thinks Emmanuel; God with us But Immanuel on Alakija Street is having spiritual blurred visions On a trip to the priest to inquire of what the future holds, Inheriting gold and paying exceedingly half its worth to verify if it’s gold The tales of Alamu the one with the gift of palmistry Brothers killed brothers, Because the other has been identified to be, The one who will inherit the gift of the fathers, Which of my kids shall be successful? Answers of which the priest shall deliver A gift of wine, a gift of hen, The fake priest gets fatter, Worshipers of the deity that sip champagne and eat gizzards Whilst living off the believers hazard Your mother is a witch Your sister is the glitch Until your siblings die your lineage shall not succeed, These priests we...

MAY YOUR ROAD BE ROUGH By Tai Solarin, Jan. 1, 1964

I am not cursing you; I am wishing you what I wish myself every year. I therefore repeat, may you have a hard time this year, may there be plenty of troubles for you this year! If you are not so sure what you should say back, why not just say, ‘Same to you’? I ask for no more. Our successes are conditioned by the amount of risk we are ready to take. Earlier on today I visited a local farmer about three miles from where I live. He could not have been more than fifty-five, but he said he was already too old to farm vigorously. He still suffered, he said, from the physical energy he displayed as a farmer in his younger days. Around his hut were two pepper bushes. There were kokoyams growing round him. There were snail shells which had given him meat. There must have been more around the banana trees I saw. He hardly ever went to town to buy things. He was self-sufficient. The car or the bus, the television or the telephone, the newspaper, Vietnam or Red China were nothing to ...

TAPOTI By: Mao Zedong

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, indigo: Who is dancing with these rainbow colours in the sky? Air after rain, slanting sun: mountains and passes turning blue in each changing moment. Fierce battles that year: bullet holes in village walls. These mountains so decorated, look even more beautiful today. Artwork via: Forbes

OLUWAJIMI . J . THORPE

Search This Blog