Author: poetryfest

I smoke to take the pain away
Hoping for better days
That I don’t have to stress
And just be blessed
What God blew my way

I run to take the pain away
Running just clears my brain away
Away of any negative thoughts
That I may have running through my mind at the time

Time is something we can’t get back
So why do I waste my time
Letting these negative thoughts run my mind

I write to take the pain away
Who cares what I write anyway
See, there you go
Negative thoughts running through my mind all the time

All the time like a sick rhyme
That you can’t get out of your head
These negative thoughts
They will keep you in bed

So, I smoke to take the pain away
Hoping for better days
That I can be blessed and live my days with no stress
See, I know that I am blessed
Because God has given me the best

I think it’s just time to put these negative thoughts to rest
I smoke to keep the pain away
Write to keep the pain away
Run to keep the pain away
I’ll stop hoping and I’ll start praying for better days
Stop smoking to keep the pain away
Just keep the things that cause you pain
Away
You won’t even need to pray for better days

The genre of this poem is painful romance, being unable to know whether they are in love or not.

Reality
Jesus I need an answer
God, please speak to me
Please
I’m begging you

I’m terrified
I don’t know how I feel
I don’t know what I feel
What is love
What is hate
When no one tells me
What it’s like
I’m truly afraid
To say I don’t love
That I can’t
But do I
Is it attention
Or more
Is it popularity
Or more

So for now
I say I hate you
I say I always did
I say I never cared
If you cared about me
I say that I don’t want
To keep looking at you
I say that my love
Belongs to someone else
I say that I only want
To be friends

If half of what I say
Is true
And the other
Unknown
Then am I in love?
And will I ever
Have an answer
Because from what I see
It doesn’t feel like it
I’m desperate

Setting forth from a place obscure,
Bearing tidings from the world of the ethereal to the natural,
His presence commanding the attention of the ever teeming crowd,
Creating an enthralling, yet ominous aura.

The Harbinger,
Herald of frank realities,
Sentient of the burdening questions of the people.
To some, he is a demigod,
To others, a messenger of doom.

In spite of this ambivalence of the arena,
In spite of the convoluted ambiance,
In spite of this mental contraption instigated by his countenance,
This multitude eagerly awaits his message,
Like the hungry puppy longs for its mother’s milk.

Having gained the people’s unwavering gaze, he begins his clarion call:
“ Hark, people!”, he calls.
“Brace up! For the worst is yet to come;
Likewise the best”, proclaims the Harbinger.

“For I, during my nomadic wanderings,
Have seen the people; children of Mother Universe,
Each embattled with his woe.
The poor striving to usurp his penury,
And the rich burdened with his insatiable desire for more.
And I, upon this epiphany,
Am marveled at how belligerent Mother Universe
Could be towards her own children”, Confesses the Harbinger.

“Hence, I bid thee;
If you shall set sail into the deep of the waters of the world,
You must hoist your mast and launch your jib,
That it may resist the violent waves of the ocean’s wind.
You must get hold of your helm,
Propelling the rudder to lose not its course.
Else, you shall be capsized by the tumultuous torrents of the sea”, he concludes.

With his words resonating deeply in the hearts of this crowd,
And his errand accomplished,
The Harbinger departs,
To return a day unknown.

About:

Hi, I’m Durodola-Oloto Olaore, a 2nd year student of the department of English and Literary studies, University of Lagos. I’m a poet with a published piece on Brittle Paper and other forthcoming publications elsewhere. I’m a reader, a writer, an independent thinker and most importantly, I’m The Colossus Himself!

You can say hi to me on Twitter @olaore_philip, Instagram @iam.colossus

When I wake up I hear the morning doves
They sing me a song called “Love” it’s bittersweet
It lifts me off my feet and I can’t get enough
So I step outside to praise the sun for lighting my life
This feels so right as I smell the morning dew
It’s so hard to chew, this candy called happiness
Do you know its truth?

Mothers in the eyes of the world were perfect. They could do nothing, not a single thing to harm the child and in every case, her mother was no different. She was beaten day after day for the most mundane things. She was framed, blamed and defamed by the so-called sweet words of her mother. She began to change, her sweet ways now wicked. The world which once had colour was now black and white in her eyes. She closed up, moving as far away as she could from anyone and anything.
She
seeked comfort from herself or anyone willing to give all because of her mother. She masked her imperfections because no one would want to see it said her mother. She buried all her problems because no one would want to hear it including her mother. She changed. To the eyes of the people she was a beast. A beast created by her mother. She cried for help but couldn’t be heard over the deceptive smile of her mother. She stopped trying because all her efforts seemed to go in vain. She finally changed. She became the people’s image of her because suddenly she couldn’t care less. She became what her mother taught her to be but obviously, this wont satisfy her mother. She became a beast to her own mother. She became a menace all because of the teachings of her mother. Her
mask
slipped on occasion and with hope, she called out for help again but who would hear it over the sweet words of her mother. Her masked slipped all the time now but only out of anger. She acted out of fear, hatred and revenge. She eventually became confused. Why would she be a beast? Weren’t this the teachings of her mother? She would never know because her mother was gone now and all that’s left
is a shadow of her mother.

We’re in a pub.

The rain has stopped, or at least settled now into a fine drizzle.
You’re on the phone to a relative, your sister –

she wants to know if we’ve had sex.
I watch as this exchange takes place, remembering your face last night
in the dark

eyes like droplets of space, open, plump lips
the full length of tooth exposed.

A face only known between lovers.

oranges fresh oranges. sweating glasses full of ice. pulpy juice spills over the brims. the orangeness accompanied by little green leaves still attached the stems. fruits rolling away. downhill. smashing or getting smashed by mediterranean-blue cars during the rush hour. hurrying towards other kinds of hues. something colder in order to avoid the citruses.

–– I get obsessed as soon as I see a hardcover with oranges on it. knowing that italy is next. italy on ice.

with orange juice poured over & espresso & gelato &

more ice &

round heavy ripe sicilian harvest.

& anything to get high on

day after day until the waste the peels start to pile up.

I stumble on them

drag my face on the sticky sweet-smelling floor.

the fruits now turning white & mushy &

later blueish green I

gently blow on their soft surface & off flies the powder-like substance that

tickles my nose while I

lay on the chilly kitchen tiles.

meanwhile so effortlessly. the sunlight covers parts of the body making them disappear. the body transforms into an idea of having endured the conditions. gone further gone towards an abundant distraction.

professor says,
“picasso had a blue period, which was later followed by a rose period.
people tend to associate the blue period with melancholic sentiments.
& the rose period, with its opposite.”
but professor, i sense lingering melancholy
in his rose period, too.

need money? get naked.
need money? don’t paint.

1.
“red is light, red is love”
but why is the red-light district the dimly-lit
alleys where sex workers eye their clients,
& where sex shops sell dildos that
you know your parents never bought?
& why is moulin rouge so heart-wrenching?

2.
papa, red is the color of your leaving:
a blow i could never bandage. but it was
cadmium red, like my buttcheeks after a spanking
from you, for not getting math equations.

i get it—
you said life isn’t fair, not all sunshine & roses,
but i tried to leap over
the other side of the equal sign, over
the crimson massacre on the page, from never finding x
but i found x in the xena that you made me.

if you saw blood,
would you ask if it hurt?

3.
self-portrait as picasso,
heart on a montmartre easel
googling the going rate
for a titty pic,
painting portraits
of my patrons,
picasso, gertrude stein,
me, my father,
who pays so i can make
still lifes of red-distilled worlds,
sans a red-light district visit,
yes, i’ll paint a portrait,
of you, papa,
in infrared, or blue
on this scar, you etched
& will never ask about

Sometimes my depression and erratic emotions derails my motivation and crashes into my thoughts, swallowing the entirety of my day and I’ve fallen into a void, floating away.

Today
I’ll watch
as you spin glitter from glass

pausing on the meaning of
Alchemy
?
“that which stays the same but has also been transformed”

Even within a still night
Life will emerge.
silence shattered with cries emerging from cherry-stained linens.
surrender
to movement.

shake my hand;

A contract
to form the other.
It takes a village
to sculpt a mind
~offer a palm~

Say a silent Prayer you will be a vase
and not an ashtray
Cracking
In the kiln.

To be crippled
at the thought of being permanent
permanently shifted. No longer a pure substance
Now
a scrapbook
of global proportions

Sitting on the precipice
You prefer to stay suspended in the air
Though you’ve long since leapt from solid ground.