Tired
Tired
of hushed whisper
amidst swaying trees
amidst swaying trees
Tired
of stolen gazes
amidst wary crowd
of stolen gazes
amidst wary crowd
I am tired
of loving the moon
of loving the moon
and not saying so
One Christmas Eve
I began to hate God at the tender age of five. I hated him for allowing my parents to be killed in a fatal accident. I hated him for pushing me out in the rain, cold and alone. I hated him for everything. With my parents dead and gone, I was forced to stay with an aunt, who blamed me for everything that ever went wrong. “Kolawole!” she would scream my name and I would run fearfully to her, fully aware that her wrath could bring down the earth. “Where is the money I put on the table?” she would roar at me. “I didn’t take any money. Aunty, I swear.” “Liar! You better tell me the truth now or I would put an end to your miserable life!” “But I didn’t take the money.” Though innocent, she would cut my flesh with razor blade and rub the wound with fresh pepper. I endured this hell until I could take it no more. Barely ten years old, I wandered into the street. The street brimmed with pain; its calloused hands offered nothing but venom and good grief. Days spent rummaging rubbish for food and
Comments
Nice...
very short...but deep!
You write well
Are we talking about being in love with some one that might not know-:)
i love the son.
the reason for the season
nice poem.
Peace, M