Poetry

THE PICTURE LOVE DOESN’T PAINT

I am no painter
if I was, love would be me,
putting words in brush tips, color and water.
I am no canvass so I am free.
Holding back the pain
that comes with the rain.
I exist in too much rush
sometimes inside the sun’s crush.

A page can be crooked
to bear straight lines,
it may be to rumpled
to hold some words.
I’d live in a deserted house
than a forest so unwatered.
No be wetin dey shak person head
Na the thing wey carry him head put for bed.
Some emotions are like cracks
undecided, pierce to run through.
The dig deep and look neat
hold dust and chew into the hardest rock,
be it in the chest or inbetween legs.
Some grow like fire, slow till heat
Taking sun into the bones holding cold
Previous Post Next Post

You Might Also Like

No Comments

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.