A deviation, a migration

I created this blog to share my poetry with the internet. I wanted to know if what I scribbled onto the pages of my journals were fit to be called poems at all. Maybe they are. I have yet to find out.


2019 is upon us in a couple of weeks and after good bout of arguments with my boyfriend about where my writing career is headed, I have decided to deviate from publishing dreary alienating poems. To what? I’m not entirely sure and I don’t think I will be until I begin whatever I think I’ve planned.

I like to read. I used to love to read but maybe that’s why I’ve ended up where I am ; not reading nearly as much as I want to. Booktube has terrified me with it’s ability to read close to ten books a week and collect Goodreads statistics to the jaw-dropping hundreds annually. I don’t have that kind of stamina nor that kind of interest.

So 52 books is where I will start. One book journaled in a week. Every week, I will sit with one person (an author) and hear what he/she has to say and then reflect upon it here. Here is not Tumblr, which is an instantly pacifying thought and here is not the salivating, snarling mouth of a beast waiting to snap shut at my fumbles.

If I get to the end of the year in one piece psychologically, I hope to feel accomplished in some way. If I don’t, it doesn’t matter as long as I’ve gone a few places, seen a few things, talked to a few people. All of which reading is able to provide, in the comfort of my living room & in the hungry spaces of my mind.

From here, I migrate…



remember all this



She’s throwing faeces at the wall. She’s lost her mind. You want to lock her away, give her to someone else. 

She’s throwing faeces at you. She wants you to remember the same way as she does. Can you? 

Hurt, humiliation, torture, agony, numbness & madness. Can you remember all this, Papa? 

Can you imagine the pain you gave her?

Somewhere in her mind, you stand with her in a closed room. She screams as she hurls faeces in your direction. 

Powerlessly, she tries to hurt you too. 



image credit : tumblr




i was told to have a festival within me

a sort of unexplained hoopla

but inside me it is stoppered

and nothing good is festering

progressive banter, skin tight schedules, self made deadlines,

g, wake up early, love life



i cannot channel the spirit that will

help me look forward to paying bills

it will be done in the timely manner as one hopes ,

with no beating of the drum

no sayonce

nothing to smile about, really.o for it



i have undressed a thousand times

but i still do not know myself naked

why should i, when all i have done

is plaster my image on to a canvas too good

for the likes of my oozing pores

i could scrub out all that is earthly within me

and i’d still wake with soft dirt in my mouth

 bound to places, times, memories, maggots

so what is id, if not a tooth rotting precisely where it should

gyrating against the pelvis of ignorantia

i thrust the impressions i have of myself

underneath fervent currents

and carry on,

dirt in my cavities,

dust in my eyes.

who dies in july



i’m a mess these days

and these days are melting away

like candles on the back porch

in the heat of july


it’s only june

i’ve leaped ahead of myself

i’ve made notes and revised

and welcomed the crippling fear a few weeks early


it comes with perks, the subconscious montage,

it comes with the tune for a morbid little lullaby :


who will die, who will die in july

father, step father, friend, feline?

who will die, die and die,

in stationary,

somber, arid july?




edging closer


It’s so strange that the people I’m most comfortable with also make me feel like they’re going to go away from me at any given moment. They make time feel like a vortex that they like to edge closer and closer to just to keep me on my toes, no, to keep my heart pounding in my mouth. It’s an existential game. “How Long Will It Be Until She Stops Dreading?”