Why is it that there is poetry like the wind
When I am only tangible as a leaf?
How many words must I combine to understand my soul
How many poems must I write to feel the sensation of being important
How many times must I scrub my skin to feel as if I am being born afresh
I’ve known pain jolting my insides like an avalanche
Like mudslides, like flowing magma, like an overflowing waterfall
I’ve felt it lash me like a hybrid cactus whip
Leaving my back with debris of despair

Why is it that love has trapped me whilst I am hungry for it
How comes I am alone yet I have friends
How is it possible that I am frowned upon when
The only thing I want is to be loved in return
How many games must I play for her to understand that it tears my guts out of loving too much
I once danced in the middle of a storm, only to leave hollow
Thinking that somehow it was better than being alone
There was a time I thought I knew love, I thought I’d found it
I wanted it so badly that I shook vigorously at my moments of weakness
Even the joy of communication would have shipped me to ecstasy
And the whole needy way of love showed how I loved too much
But then there’s one girl who keeps showing up, reciting how much desire digs the foundation of love

How many poems must I dress with words such as
Shipwrecks, heavy artillery, brittle fire, aurora, maples, tumbleweed and the sea
If only I had a foretaste of having the one I want
Compounded by the indiscretions of my suffering

Have you ever been compelled to appear naked before someone only for them to run away branding you
A looser, when they already know too much
Sometimes we share our inmost agony
Out of trust or weakness or desire or suffering
Yet in the emptiness that follows we wonder
Was it worth it?
How long does one attain peace of mind should the heart fail in concealing it’s affection
Some days God has been pain popping out of each pore
Chanting how duty to him is important than to self
Then other days, God has been the perfect equalizer of tribulations
Making me wrinkle away too fast
Shrouded by confusion
Wishing someday
I’d be able to understand what it takes to forgive myself

(C) Eddy Ongili 2015


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