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 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.

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. 

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. 

Tears At A Funeral

©malantha

••••
The grass dances to the dirge, the solemn farewell songs of the birds, but for this and the tears of his one true lover, all was silent.

As the story goes, he had slipped on his drunkenness, missed his footing and tumbled down the stairs, rolling down till he bled out his last at the foot of the stairs. They don't know the truth, they know how his wickedness led him to his own grave. They don't know the truth of his heart and the sins of his one true lover.

It was a cold windy night when he stepped into the house, reeking of alcohol, smoke and a woman's perfume. Every night was the same, painful grips and blows that left hate on her pretty face. She had to run from the one she loved, she could because she was afraid he might push her, she could not sing. She was afraid he might steal her voice like he stole her freedom and dignity. She would tell herself, it wasn't his fault but every time her friends asked why she wouldn't take off her shades, she blamed him inside and out. 

So that night, the water had reached her neck, choking and forcing all her rage out. He had his hands on her neck once again, and she had a knife in her pocket. A tear for every night on the left, and tears of joy to be done from the hold. She gave him one last kiss, before letting him go. She dipped the knife in slowly, relishing the final taste of his lips that turned to victory. Then she let him fall, down the stairs, tumbling slowly to the end, right where she needed him. 

So while they sit around her in comfort, she feels the need to get up and dance. They don't know that she doesn't need their comfort, she just needs them to dance with her. They don't know that the tears that fall are that of joy. They don't know her heart lacks regret, but there is new life bursting through the ends of her veins, she has found strength by the grave of her one true lover. She can dance without fear of being pushed. 

Hey There!

First of all, I am sincerely sorry for not posting anything in a while, but I hope you love the new look, especially the girl in the background. She's got a beautiful smile doesn't she? 
Hopefully, 2018 will be a better year. I wish you the very best this holidays and Merry Christmas in Advance.

I want to thank my readers for all the support, shares, reposts and retweets. It gives me joy to see and know that I am not alone in this. It encourages me, despite my many shortcomings concerning the blog. Thank you. God loves you.

P. S Bish The Anonymous has decided to be regular face here, more of her adventures coming up.

Stay true to yourself, stay beautiful.

- What's the best thing about this season?

All the love and joy.

LIFE

We can never always get what we want or who we want. We wish for many things that sometimes never get to come to us. Money, love, friends.. A good life. Some of us have planned our lives in such perfect arrangement, even up until the day we are going to die. Sadly, life never gives us all we want, even if it does give us what we want, it's either half of it or maybe nothing at all.

Secret is to not expect too much out of life, expect good things but be prepared for the bad things that will come along because nothing good comes easy. Come to think of it, it's all these that make life interesting. What would life be like if everything came easy? What's life without a little hustle, a little traffic, a little pain... A little sorrow. These things give life extra meaning, something to fight for you know...

It's up to you to learn from these. Learn from mistakes and experiences, they'll help you get though the next phase of life which would probably be more difficult. They say, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Enjoy life too, make the most out of all of it. You only live once remember? Instead of wasting time complaining and contemplating why life treats you the way it does, you could go out with the few real friends you have and learn a little about the good side of life. Discover, be part of something new or old. There's so much out there hiding under all that badness. Just live it out. It doesn't get any easier.

Febuary 14th

'You can't get tired of Freedom.'

So on Valentine's day, I went out with a friend. We just wanted ice cream. By 10pm. We didn't expect anywhere would be closed so early but shockingly it was. This is not a story about our adventure, it was a very boring one. Music, Weed, lights and lots of half naked people. This is a story of how I fell in love with the touch of a certain fellow over night.

It was a hot old music studio, we sat on the old peeling couch talking about all the things we loved to do. All the people we love or rather the girl he loved. I was much more into the music of the night. Then slowly we slipped into something else, something I've never felt before, I don't know about him but I knew life that day. A little joy, a little pleasure in between. He ran his fingers down my arms, pulled my strings like he would his guitar.  

Then we talked some more, about things other people loved, the people we know, it's sad thinking about now. Then he kissed me, he kissed me like he meant it, like it was me he had in mind, I kissed back like I meant it. It didn't take long for hands to travel, for feelings to fly over our heads. He pulled back and looked into my eyes, I wonder what he was looking for. I found what I was looking for, nothingness.

He kissed me again, told me he loved the feeling of my hands on his face, it probably felt like temporary joy, the same way his hands felt in between legs. Pulling me close, taking me high up, giving me the little love he had left over from his broken heart, replacing my pain with something new.

I fell asleep buried in his warmth, I woke up the next morning cold and alone. We're never going back there though, we don't talk anymore. I wonder if he still remembers. Don't be mistaken, I don't love him. It's just the idea of him.

This Is What Love Feels Like

It's a like party inside your head, joy flowing through every vain. You don't know how to dance but you dance anyway. A reason to look more carefully when you cross the road, happiness with no borders, flowing like a river in and out of your soul.

It's like lying down on a bed of feathers, tickling and relaxing. Love makes you run, makes you jump  over cliffs with no worries of breaking because you know your lover waits to catch you. This is what love feels like..

It feels like a song. The song of birds in the early morning. It feels like your favourite song, you can't help but take off your shoes and just feel the softness of the carpet.

But love is also pain, love is also the sound of breaking bones. Love also feels like sand paper, like tasteless soup, like hot water on your skin. Love also feels like sadness, like the clouds have left you and Sun has lost it's shine. Love feels like a big empty house, feels like the prickling of blades of dry grass, feels like the sting of many bees.

Poetry - If Our Love Was A StoryBook

I fell inside a love story.
Each chapter was covered in
Lines of hope and desire...
Peace.. 
All that I've always yearned for.

So I walked the pages
Hand in hand with my lover.
Taking my time, feeling the heat
In every letter.
Breathed in each full stop knowing
Another sentence, another chapter waits.

Slowly, we reached our climax,
But then like every good story,
We came to an end.

Untitled

She woke up not wanting the  be awake. The sunlight felt like an enemy crawling on her skin, as she struggled to unwrap herself from the sheets. She had tossed so much in the night that she trapped herself within. Her dreams came back to her, the storm that chased her, the mocking moon. She had seen him too, as always, waiting on the other side, dressed in white, eyes like fire and a bleeding hole where his heart should be.  She could see him walking on water towards her, pale hands stretched out for her, to save her but before she could step over the bank of the river, the tide would toss her into the morning.

She placed her feet on the tiles, eyes closed , away from the open window. She could hear her mother call, she waited. She waited for the cold to reach her chest. It did not. She did this every Saturday, waiting for death. Trimmed her hair every Friday, to look pretty for Death.

Her mother called again, and she ignored it. She was still waiting.
'Hope! I've been calling.. ' Her mother was in the room Now.
'I'm coming. Please go.' Her mother hesitated but she saw this every Saturday, she gathered herself and left.

As she raised herself from the bed to follow her mother, she felt it in her stomach first. The drugs, turning in circles, drilling in and churning out. She felt the fangs digging in, causing pain. Her mouth opened wide, but no words fell out. The cold travelled down her legs, tickling her feet, then it ran back up, reaching her stomach, one last down before starting a slow trek to her head. Her body convulsed, as the pain trekked backwards towards her heart and swallowed it.

She could finally touch his hand.