She was an emotional, manipulative yet loyal, angry and hungry poet with trust issues and a sense of humour she didn't know about. Her passion for art grew from stems of hatred, lust, anger and betrayal. She refused to dance, she hated the smell of happiness yet she wished she would find something like that for herself.
Everyday she bathed herself in self pity and memories of all the love she had given up in moments of selfishness. She thought about times she had forced the truth with her fake tears and fear out of people just to be sure how far they'll go for her.
Yet, she would lazy around and fling the sheets over herself when they wanted to leave, she didn't fight for them. Only when the dreams gave her scars. Only then did she wear her coat and go after them.
She loved in the secrecy of her solitude, in her room of many faces. She wore a new face everyday, a new lie about how okay she was. Meanwhile on the inside, she suffered a new death everyday.
She would never leave her heart in your hands and runs far away from love. She can't take it. She can't help herself, she can only love herself, nobody is worthy of her love and she is not worthy of yours but you can't help it. You can help but give her everything you have.
No matter how far she runs, no matter how far she strays, she comes back even if you were never waiting. She can't give up. She wants to, she can't.
Sunday 7 January 2018
Saturday 6 January 2018
Divine Poetry - 3
The Birth Of Cupid
Divine Inyang Titus
They say they met
In the heat of battle.
She'd watched on a silver cloud
As he slayed the thousands,
As his breath became jagged darts of death..
He was gold haired,
And defiantly handsome.
His chest rose like a brazen tower
To the winds;
And in the whiteness of his beards
A passion lurked,
Whose sensual tentacles would prick her heart
Forever...
He watched her too
On the drifting silver cloud,
Impossible, in that moon colored dress
That ran down her sublime body
And billowed eternally behind her.
Her face wore the texture of grace,
And he could not cease to wonder
What such transcendental beauty
Sought in the gripping grimness
Of war...
But she was crying..
Her eyes, were drooling out soft, passionate waters
In defined trickles,
And even still,
Her essence blazed with the fires of a passion
Even he found impossible to resist..
So he flew from his throne of blood
And met her, there on the silver cloud,
And in the first instant their scents connected,
They welded into their grave passion
And as lips filled lips
And tongues filled mouths,
And hands filled bodies,
And the god filled the goddess
And they reach the flaming zenith of their passion,
And the oceans lost their banks...
A golden youth burst forth..
He had the softness of her eyes,
And the divineness of his frame..
He shone with a blistering brilliance that surpassed them both
And behind him, a pair of silver wings fluttered in pure ecstasy.
He was young, and remained so.
In his beauty, there arose meaning,
And in his soul was a purity,
Haloed by an interminable love.
He became love..
For indeed,
In his heart, was her love,
And in his hands were his bow.
But also a blazing torch,
From which would proceed
The flames of mad desire
That burnt,
And that scourged sight..
And his name was called..
Divine Inyang Titus
They say they met
In the heat of battle.
She'd watched on a silver cloud
As he slayed the thousands,
As his breath became jagged darts of death..
He was gold haired,
And defiantly handsome.
His chest rose like a brazen tower
To the winds;
And in the whiteness of his beards
A passion lurked,
Whose sensual tentacles would prick her heart
Forever...
He watched her too
On the drifting silver cloud,
Impossible, in that moon colored dress
That ran down her sublime body
And billowed eternally behind her.
Her face wore the texture of grace,
And he could not cease to wonder
What such transcendental beauty
Sought in the gripping grimness
Of war...
But she was crying..
Her eyes, were drooling out soft, passionate waters
In defined trickles,
And even still,
Her essence blazed with the fires of a passion
Even he found impossible to resist..
So he flew from his throne of blood
And met her, there on the silver cloud,
And in the first instant their scents connected,
They welded into their grave passion
And as lips filled lips
And tongues filled mouths,
And hands filled bodies,
And the god filled the goddess
And they reach the flaming zenith of their passion,
And the oceans lost their banks...
A golden youth burst forth..
He had the softness of her eyes,
And the divineness of his frame..
He shone with a blistering brilliance that surpassed them both
And behind him, a pair of silver wings fluttered in pure ecstasy.
He was young, and remained so.
In his beauty, there arose meaning,
And in his soul was a purity,
Haloed by an interminable love.
He became love..
For indeed,
In his heart, was her love,
And in his hands were his bow.
But also a blazing torch,
From which would proceed
The flames of mad desire
That burnt,
And that scourged sight..
And his name was called..
Divine Poetry - 2
INFINITE PASSIONS
Divine Inyang Titus
He can now touch his desire.
Run his burning fingers through
The consuming fire;
Yell at the the scalding heat;
With his confounded ardour,
His haunted zeal;
And his night is the victim of his fury,
No peace for them.
Marooned in his fervent longings
With a sizzling passion;
Fierce and almost..almost cursed.
True. Offspring of those two mighty stars
Of infinite passions;
Of war and love
Must have buried his arrow in him;
Let the golden head sink
Deep into blood and flesh,
And drawn from within
The darkest pigments of yearning;
Freed with a lasting wildness,
The guarded beasts of his lust.
No where to run from himself.
Tied to his shadow
By little, invisible strings
That would never cut.
As though now
His shadow represents his want;
His beserk needs to exercise
The starved limbs of his passion...
He will search sacred texts.
He will spill hot wax on his skin
And shriek, and scream, yet
Scouring in furious delirium for the spells,
The spells to undo this madness..
To appease this conflagration
For it burns as hot and as wild as hell.
And the pain is too deep,
For even the unknown parts of his soul
Writhes from its torture..
Then he will search for pain!
For that will be the only other alternative.
He will mutilate his body
And make clear incisions on his skin.
He will write the name of his passion
On his forehead, and he will make tattoos
Of its figure on his soul.
Still, he will not be sated,
Or even remotely at peace.
So he will scale to the top of the North Sister.
He will suck in the cold on bare skin.
He will hurl himself down from her peak
To the feet of his passion.
Still, he will not be at peace.
Then finally, after all is done;
After all have failed and blundered,
He will turn to his passion,
And embrace it,
Without fear or scruple,
And even if he is rejected,
He may yet have,
Some peace for the night.
Divine Inyang Titus
He can now touch his desire.
Run his burning fingers through
The consuming fire;
Yell at the the scalding heat;
With his confounded ardour,
His haunted zeal;
And his night is the victim of his fury,
No peace for them.
Marooned in his fervent longings
With a sizzling passion;
Fierce and almost..almost cursed.
True. Offspring of those two mighty stars
Of infinite passions;
Of war and love
Must have buried his arrow in him;
Let the golden head sink
Deep into blood and flesh,
And drawn from within
The darkest pigments of yearning;
Freed with a lasting wildness,
The guarded beasts of his lust.
No where to run from himself.
Tied to his shadow
By little, invisible strings
That would never cut.
As though now
His shadow represents his want;
His beserk needs to exercise
The starved limbs of his passion...
He will search sacred texts.
He will spill hot wax on his skin
And shriek, and scream, yet
Scouring in furious delirium for the spells,
The spells to undo this madness..
To appease this conflagration
For it burns as hot and as wild as hell.
And the pain is too deep,
For even the unknown parts of his soul
Writhes from its torture..
Then he will search for pain!
For that will be the only other alternative.
He will mutilate his body
And make clear incisions on his skin.
He will write the name of his passion
On his forehead, and he will make tattoos
Of its figure on his soul.
Still, he will not be sated,
Or even remotely at peace.
So he will scale to the top of the North Sister.
He will suck in the cold on bare skin.
He will hurl himself down from her peak
To the feet of his passion.
Still, he will not be at peace.
Then finally, after all is done;
After all have failed and blundered,
He will turn to his passion,
And embrace it,
Without fear or scruple,
And even if he is rejected,
He may yet have,
Some peace for the night.
Divine Poetry - 1
BOW AND LAKE
Divine Inyang Titus
There is a bow
And there is a lake.
There is the scar
Where he lies awake.
Beneath the tangled waste
Of forgotten music,
A reminder of pain,
The piercings of Cupid.
The waters of sin
Must begin their thirsty days
Arush through my hot throat,
Wildly in search of hate.
Here, beholding a brown mirror,
With rose and scented balm,
I am dirty, without a sweat
And at peace with the uneven calm.
I am the proud teller
Of the stained and bleeding lore;
Of the vain legends,
Of him who hurts with love.
The lyre's wailings,
The harp's sharp, stinging tears;
The fingers that play them
Pluck the hurt of a million years.
I, again, am the proud singer
Of the immortal tribal song;
Sung to sharpen the very arrow
That reddens the memories I had flung.
I am settler in a desert of sad tales.
Wafter in the cluster of red clouds, there.
The one who was hurt with love,
The one whose pains are too loud to hear.
Yes. There is a bow.
But no more lake, now dead ground.
And there, the blazing scar.
Over which his watchful wings make not a sound.
Divine Inyang Titus
There is a bow
And there is a lake.
There is the scar
Where he lies awake.
Beneath the tangled waste
Of forgotten music,
A reminder of pain,
The piercings of Cupid.
The waters of sin
Must begin their thirsty days
Arush through my hot throat,
Wildly in search of hate.
Here, beholding a brown mirror,
With rose and scented balm,
I am dirty, without a sweat
And at peace with the uneven calm.
I am the proud teller
Of the stained and bleeding lore;
Of the vain legends,
Of him who hurts with love.
The lyre's wailings,
The harp's sharp, stinging tears;
The fingers that play them
Pluck the hurt of a million years.
I, again, am the proud singer
Of the immortal tribal song;
Sung to sharpen the very arrow
That reddens the memories I had flung.
I am settler in a desert of sad tales.
Wafter in the cluster of red clouds, there.
The one who was hurt with love,
The one whose pains are too loud to hear.
Yes. There is a bow.
But no more lake, now dead ground.
And there, the blazing scar.
Over which his watchful wings make not a sound.
Tuesday 2 January 2018
Something Short
I love my lover with a D.
D is for the desires hidden in day dreams. D is for the depth of the pleasures he gives me. D is for the deep darkness living inside him.
I love my lover with an M.
M is for being the muse I travel to when my mind has lost its path. M is for the music beneath my feet when he touches me.
Somewhere in there, is an R. R is for the raging storms of fire that build up with every passing second. R is for rain, the sweet smell of rain, sweet smell of nature.
Beneath that carefully put together fence of bricks is a C. C for care, maybe courage. Or the bottles of Cognac or the burnt out cigarettes we shared in our own silence.
H is for happiness, an unexplainable happiness that explores no bounds.
I love him with everything, and I guess that's an E.
D is for the desires hidden in day dreams. D is for the depth of the pleasures he gives me. D is for the deep darkness living inside him.
I love my lover with an M.
M is for being the muse I travel to when my mind has lost its path. M is for the music beneath my feet when he touches me.
Somewhere in there, is an R. R is for the raging storms of fire that build up with every passing second. R is for rain, the sweet smell of rain, sweet smell of nature.
Beneath that carefully put together fence of bricks is a C. C for care, maybe courage. Or the bottles of Cognac or the burnt out cigarettes we shared in our own silence.
H is for happiness, an unexplainable happiness that explores no bounds.
I love him with everything, and I guess that's an E.
Can You Hear Me?
I wish I could hear the butterflies, just the way I see them. I wish I knew what songs the birds sing in the morning by my window. I wish I could hear my mother pray for me.
Each time I strain, hoping maybe they're just not loud enough, all I hear is silence and darkness. An aching absence. Silence that ties you up, constrains you, keeps you awake, Blinds you and gives nightmares. You can actually hear them in your dreams.
I wish I could hear you say 'I love you.'
I wish you could hear me say it back.
I can't seem to find my voice. I think fear swallowed it. I wish you could hear you, I wish you could hear me. I wish I could hear say my name, feel what it sound likes hanging off the corner of your lips. I wish you could hear how happy I am, being close to me.
I can't hear you. What did you say? Kiss me, maybe I'll hear it then.
Each time I strain, hoping maybe they're just not loud enough, all I hear is silence and darkness. An aching absence. Silence that ties you up, constrains you, keeps you awake, Blinds you and gives nightmares. You can actually hear them in your dreams.
I wish I could hear you say 'I love you.'
I wish you could hear me say it back.
I can't seem to find my voice. I think fear swallowed it. I wish you could hear you, I wish you could hear me. I wish I could hear say my name, feel what it sound likes hanging off the corner of your lips. I wish you could hear how happy I am, being close to me.
I can't hear you. What did you say? Kiss me, maybe I'll hear it then.
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