Olubunmi Fatoba

I wake up daily with this self-spur 'it will be better". In my prime age with responsibilities resting on my shoulders, that ignore the existence of my identity and upheaval. The spirit of resiliency and trial becomes my drive as I seek means to make a life worthy from my life. Hustling becomes the norm, the feeling of doing something that gives you the satisfaction that you are active and the dissatisfaction of extending expectations. However, the rule of the game is 'keep moving, keep doing something'. The delight of everyone is the ability to stick to clairvoyance, believing in dreams, in you, in me, in them,  as you wipe off negatives and blocks. Daily, you sleep with this smile, in that imaginative section with a realistic countenance of owning your space and niche in this world. penned 27-03-2019 Lafia

What is your own pain? Is it pain itself? or its triggers? My society is that of bountiful desires and pinned expectations. Pressure rests on the Young like a bomb, veils their reasoning with societal blindness captures hearts with fears and breathes into existence with nothingness "I will come back." such blissful promise and hope from the young lad. Like a robust cloud, we all waited and waited but the august visitor cut him down shattered hearts and totality on an innocent day. Then the trail trails... to prick another young.

there are things that are more important than a cliché desire. things that act as support system things that thrill us even when a nexus is absent things that give us succour, peace, hedge, life, things that appeal to our whole things that sustain and give us stamina things that reveal our dexterity things that render us responsible things that lift us things that upgrade us things that qualify us things that would always be there even when all is shaky things we put first even before what you call love things that define us  and when this thing crumbles everything about us crumbles then the anger spurs us to be better.

What we conceal Unshed tears Violated expression Shortened desire and hope Like a lifeless rain In a mind that anchors peace and war.

May we always remember. May the veil collapse. May paths align. May hearts clasp. May peace commune with us. May we triumph others’ speculations. May good providence collide with our existence. May we happen. May we live.

You walk in the plank  with no visible gut and goal. You caress all with a gloom caress none with the same gloom. You look around  to grab the woods piercing you with presage titles. You pass into  a hopeless hope jumping from seeking tons to rages of tranquility ‘waiting for Godot’. Vladimir and Estragon path differs. Yours turns a good fortune your sudden stand of severe serenity stuns stiles. Now, you wail from inner harmony you freeze in elongated ecstasy the bliss washes away your relic you bounce in felicitation. With full gut, You walk past those piercing woods  to pick up your happiness.

The Twist like a wheel like a curl unstable cruel and mean furlong, forgone, is this life you live.

The palpitation that accompanies a  boom The appearance of crystal quaky storms In the voyage  Of intimacy _ In a flawless peace of extreme ecstasy. The mystical rhythm of deeds buried in the loo. Simplicity is the soul of writing the depiction of complexity In it, we lay our deepest fears and cloth it with fragrance. We flush out risks in the voyage of displaying simplicity, mount on illusioned wings to  make a simple proof like how they buried their deeds in the loo.

The extension of influence is a matter of cooperate independency. The numerous agitations and wailings of the heart is a famous bewilderment to its owner. This room bears the aroma of archaic alienation.  The innermost longing for a messiah like the dudes in "waiting for Godot". The enthronement of strength built in centuries by a flip flop. Mechanical accuracy is not witty enough to create an emblem of propriety.  Hike hiked away with Megalodon, the white object received adoration as a cremation for the pureness left in that scheme.  The intuit fear of attempting to attempt. The satisfaction in attempting after all. The will of a writer or a poet or a furlong poet.  The waiting room for many wish. The benignity of benign.  The hullabaloo here stirs more stirs of stirs.  Donne says, "let us sport while we may". The assumption of a sudden ownership of what you thought you kept for years. Like the landlord, you barged in with full ownership, alas!! you fell into your

this shimmering object built a castle in our dining, planted a grip in our heart, sent us torrents of hopelessness, a fog to our dreams. It mocks like cunts, at the life we desired. we watched as it dangles with lifeless lives.

I have a wish, a mission, a die hard desire like the parrot. I want to live and talk. like the daffodils. I want to glow beyond the tenses and tensions that pierce the heart, beyond the time that failed and the promises that  skipped. Let me live again to a full beyond a fill.

I woke up today with our memories staring and smiling, I stared and smiled back. 

  It was yesterday I saw a lad; he couldn’t have seen two moons; he was moaning in a solitude disposition. His shoulders bore a luggage of everyone’s bigotness and desires. His eyes, distant, void of blood and soul. The same eyes glowed in abandoned state of unseen perception. His wit halted the roaming and roading of the objects around him, including beings and species and all and the shadowed serenity he exposed. I made an attempt to either help or withdraw, again, as if in a cage, he lurked amorously to a cyclic state.  His state like a mirror exposed us to us, the life we live, the life of another.

Dear you, it's a new year.  Live. Glow. Create springs. Flaunt the springs. Flaunt you. Flaunt your prowess. For these days are the future you envisioned.

Have you ever been on a cyclic cycling of endless uncertainties? Of how oneself turned absurdity to self, you keep searching for the core, but nothing to grasp. You highlighted all the options, yet, you couldn’t pick one, because all seems to be like that mysterious cake. Mares, whether day or night, are likeable to torment, stir and enlighten. In a misty world of smiling harmattan and pleasing cold. Words clove in a faraway diaspora, of a cliché routine., fear of how, not even why nor when. But of how to sweep the world, make it bare and mere embark on the ‘voyage’ to strike the strikers, the world on your shoulder and thine in yours and you live to sweep the world that covers you with its flashing veil.