Singing Shadows
Chained neck,
I'm your wounded slave,
Bleeding heart but you not crying,
My love is way too late,
Shave your mind, and I'l wax mine.
He cried, he called your name,
With 20 years comes too much pain,
It had to be done, done today,
I'l sing your song, while you hum it.
Poisoned wine or Russian roulette,
He chose, I just listened,
Ocean tides are wild at night, so swim with me, if you willing.
Chuck of skin on an empty plate,
You taste the blood while you cuming.
Tiger's smile even while they cry,
You will love me in the morning.
Folded lips send my soul to sleep,
Your wicked smile still hunts me,
A flagrant Foul, I tried calling you now
From Mr. jailer's phone this morning.
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poem by Jolomi Amuka
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Do You See Me
It's 3: 58am in New York city,
My pen painting patterns, while my tongue drowns in whiskey.
I heard dines-ties have always been created on tragedies,
Tragedies make the morning news,
And legacies are only remembered if the legend dies horribly.
Two months shy and 6 years away from 30,
My life a catacomb,
Decorated with loneliness and too much self-pity.
My various talents a facade like plaster of paris,
From which my chandeliers fall from these watery walls.
And every few years I meet a certain someone who sends my depression into coma,
Covering me with another blanket of bullshit, till I forget the color of my skin.
And when I shed, I shed painfully,
Pealing of my flesh, till vultures feed on my bloody wounds
And on this crusted scabies, bugs lay their eggs.
My people are the most insecure people I have ever met,
Diligently teaching ourselves to never feel pain,
Till we never feel pain,
Even in death.
I want to visit all my ex's naked with a rose in hand,
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poem by Jolomi Amuka
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What Are We Fighting For?
Since meeting you, I have experienced heaven and hell,
Now you got me stuck in pegertory.
I wonder why we must fight, to ignite
One candle to reflect light on our sacred moments.
My friends think you're cute,
Frankly, I think you freaking adorable,
Your friends call me a douch,
How cute, how adorable.
I try to understand you,
I talk to you,
But somewhere lost in the connection, we transition to argue.
Understand I'm not calling out a name to shoulder the blame,
But inbetween my mystic, and your psycho analyses,
We get hypnotized by our own mystery.
What happened to living in the moment?
When did our inscecurities become referrees, who determined,
When we could play, told us what to do and what not to say.
When did we ignore, spell bound,
for end now.
Are we objects of our lustful desires,
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poem by Jolomi Amuka
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The Moment
I miss talking to you.
Many times a day I stare at your face,
and with every scroll I make,
I look for something new on your page,
Hoping one frozen pixel would have something to say.
I try texting you, but my dexterity has grown more lethargic since the last time our fingers touched.
And since we barely speak, my computer screen was the only place I felt a spark,
Till I walked into the classroom.
From the corner of my eye I caught her smile,
My gaze plastered on her fragile face like Creme de la Mer.
We broke eye contact for a second, then stared for a few more seconds and chuckled at the awkwardness in connection,
Cause the next question,
Was who's is going to initiate the introduction?
But for some aberrant reason, we both sat still,
Appreciating the chaos,
Sounds of noisy students reverberating off padded walls and hollow skulls.
Yet in this Ataxia, we established public sulitude,
Connected by a golden bubble, although divided by the distance betweeen us in the room.
It's the first day of class, the teacher walks in, class is in session,
I'm listening to everything the teacher's saying, yet the girl with the vintage smile, in the pocka dot dress has got my vivid attention.
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poem by Jolomi Amuka
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