I Will Find You.

Mountains of immense heights

Rivers of unfathomable depths

Won’t hinder me. 

Pitch dark, bright light

I will find you 

Pulpit and Pew 1

Hey Mr Preacher man.

In your suit of threadbare cotton,

Hanging on you; limp

Like clothing on a scarecrow.

Hungry you look; hungry you are.

Hello Grim

The most feared being

The inevitable one

You whom light trembles at

And darkness adores;

Grim. 

Black Sheep.

Bla bla black sheep

Have I any wool?

Well yes.

I have a bag full of blackness.

Warm soft wool,

To rid you of some good.

A luggage of my wonderful vices

Spilling out and bursting full

Like Santa’s bag on Christmas eve.

Unabashed, I will flaunt them,

Parade them like they deserve to.

Like a proud Soldier they are my medals of honour

They are my defining elements,

My descriptive features

In my trail follows disappointment and heartache

Behind me runs the tears of they who love me,

They who have not the slightest inkling of what I am.

Without a care or regard for your hearts

I pledge to ignore your pleas.

I am the black sheep

On that long winding road

To seemingly destruction.

I am the black Sheep,

Who never will listen

Who never will you hear

I am the black Sheep 

Who will not only bring you shame,

But promise to shower on you pain. 

Nkem Oyaghire

Childhood Prolonged

Tempus Fugit

Ever spinning clock

Minute and second hands in unison.

Time is flying and I'm stuck in moments

Pictures swimming in my head

Collages of memories.

I can't seem to move beyond the 90's

So I don't grow.

Remain a girl in my head.

Steady in my ever present flashbacks.

Won't be a lady of nineteen

Refusing to acknowledge the raging hormones.

Fire burning in thighs refuting to explain it

Seemingly allergic to the fires.

Curiosity I adamantly restrain.

Still a girl, denying sex, alcohol and drugs.

Tempus fugit.

We are all growing.

I remain a girl, denying my thirthies. 

Body thirsty for growth from a reprobate mind.

Body rebels and won't obey mind.

Tempus Fugit.

I'm older now, not in mind

But in body, actions and social responsibilities

.

Tempus fugit.

My time is running out

Death is near.

My mind still in the 90s, body is ninety.

Breath of the dying seeps from me

Pipe dreams of 6 year old me.

In the lack thereof of an adulthood.

I shall reelish my prolonged childhood.

Without second thought

Would return and iterate. 
Nkem Oyaghire

N.B TEMPUS FUGIT IS LATIN FOR TIME FLIES. 

The Call

It has been four days after;

Idly I sit by my phones

Waiting for the sound of Big Sean

To announce a caller.

Anxious for the beep of a message

Not from the Network

Offering promises of elusive bonuses

But from him.

To tell me he was shy

And he missed me mildly.

To assure me that I'm not mad.

All the while wondering

"What is wrong with me?" 

It has been four days since the first kiss,

Four days since I last felt real butterflies,

Four days since anyone dared,

Four days since a burning of that kind.

Four days since... After a year.

In my mind I have played

The tape of a conversation.

Rehearsed the first words I shall utter

Speculating whether to be coy or nah

To display anger or  nonchalance.

Still unsure as to my preferred reactions

I have prepared myself to sound

Like a lady

To pretend I have been unexpectant

Like I'm not lonely.

All the while ignoring reality,

Willing myself to believe

To have faith

And hold a shred of hope

That it wasn't just it

And that he is not like all of you.

Not a disappointment

Like the past attempts.

Praying he isn't another reason

To not try anymore. 

Nkem 

Mundane Sunday

Call to service; 8:00

The pews shall fill up by 7:30

With cracked knees and tightly clasped palms.

Their lips utter supplications and entreaties 

To the almighty who hears;

But may withhold answers or solutions.

I shall follow on the heels of she that birthed me

Today she will cry like always

For father to return to his good ol ways.

Whimper feverishly for that unduly deserved promotion

And pray fervently for all unseen forces to die.

I will sit-still beside her and bide time

Watch the second hand pursue the minute hand

Silently drift off to places unknown 

Kneel and stand in tune with the service.

Like a well oiled cog I will follow the motions 

Of the perfect machine that is a Sunday service.

When the time comes share the grace

Wish my neighbour peace.

On my mother's heels will I follow-out.

Welcome to my mundane Sunday. 

Ms Oyaghire

Fiery Love

My love for you does not run as deep as rivers,

For water cannot quench the fire

In me that burns for you.

It burns as hot as a thousand fires;

As hot as a fiery furnace heated seven times over

Engulfing me in flames of unbridled passions.

What I feel for  you is a powerful storm.

Way beyond my control or understanding.

Sweeping me up in the throes of a painful love.

A destructive love that soothes my demons

I found a person whose evil compliments my bad

Not to be mathematical

Like two negatives we have become postive.

My love for you is a still voice constantly reassuring you

Of the eternal bind our hearts have.

Reminding you that come war or peace,

Hell or high water,

Never will I leave you.

There are no words appropriate enough

To carry the weight of my love for you.

For in the vast void of my vapid existence

You found me.

Prince Fucking Charming.

She said our Prince Charmings are riding to us

On horses that embody elegance.
They personify grace and

They will lift us out of the fog of seemingly unfathomable heartbreaks.

We will ride into a kingdom of inconceivable love.  

Our hearts beat as one, they will surely find us. She said.

On this fateful day

On another wait rode in a Prince Charming

On a regal Mustang. 

With eyes you could misplace yourself in,

Smelling like he passed through a field of Roses

His smile was a dark night sky sprinkled with stars.  Beautiful.

And seeing him we knew he was the one.

On this fateful day

Came Prince charming and laid his sword at her feet.
Off she rode with him into happiness.

So I waited still. At the end of my wait.

Grabbed the next Prince that strode along,

Blinded by the urgency of a dying womb

And the impatience of an aging spinster.

My mistake; he was not of the Charming family.

Prince fucking Charming I shall call him.

He prefers the comfort of a prostitute

To the warmth of my thighs.

The bosom of a strange woman he lays

While mine burns feverishly for him.

The ale of the tavern is a sweet smelling savour

Not my back-breaking sweaty 
Made dainty dishes.

His fist pounding me is

The only pleasure he seeks from me.  

Today I will wipe his brow and dote on him devoutly.

Lay a meal befitting a king before him

After his bouts with the maidens of the town.

For he is a king, not just the type

Worthy of a life.

For when dawn wakens I shall send him

To the hell he deserves.

His mistake; he didn't marry Cinderella

All this while he had been laying with Cruella. 

Ms Oyaghire