There’s a place, where water is the
floor and darkness is happiness,
It is said that a poet is sublime, sorrily,
and sacred – For humanity.
I have no proof of that.
Yet I hear them call me a poet,
I listen to their praises, shattering
scrolled truths of my forbearance.
I am no poet,
Rather I love the rush of words,
Those tumultous tendencies that travel
through the body,
The friction that facilitates pleasure
and pain.
The repeated sighs.
I cannot stand crowned as yet the
greatest minds and souls,
That brought forth something greater
than the universe,
I am a worshipper of words, and it
remains my faith to the orgasm that
words provide that sets the
turbulence in my pen.
I write because I have to.
Words are the erupting volcanoes at my
The throbbing tsumanic waves inside
my knees,
The light and darkness in my soul,
The enlightment of my mind,
The triviality or totality of my
The armour, the sceptre.
And as yet, I’m troubled.

I’ll always remain a humble writer,
nothing more or less.

I remain amazed at the lust that
walks torpidly sometimes and
But the craving I get when I see a
blank page,
Is like a hammer thumping my chest,
breaking yet moulding –
Something I’m unable to understand
or decribe,
Because the tone of ink, squeezes my
breath with its utter strength and
sketches more.
I confess on my fetish as a writer – I
find potent inspiration from the art-
female body.
There’s infallibility that I can’t seem to
even scoop – I try and it increases. The
lines bewitch me and inspiration runs
from the head to toe.
Whether camping before the breasts or
behind the arse.
I find beauty.
I must remain discrete though but
the full-purpose appreciation humbles
me with flowery kisses.

© Eddy Ongili 2014


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