My bone breaks
Like the rickety creak of an ancient staircase
This world, this world weighs down on my fragile shoulders
My heart, this frail heart of mine no longer beats to the tune of joy.
Sadness seeks solace in my soul;
It finds a safe space in my sagging spirit.

What is life?
Isn’t it a realm where
Demons are enthroned, adorned in royal attires and
Angels are demonised, spitefully used?

I’m tired of trying to be happy.
This garment of pretence is too heavy.
I try to be fine,
But the more I try, the more fear clings to me like a leech
Fear of the depth of humans’ monstrosity
Fear of the unknown and death itself.

READ ALSO: The Poet: You Could Be Next to Die

Though I sometimes crave death
To ’scape the infinite cares that besiege this cruel realm.
Can’t we all have it good? Can’t we all be humane?

When will Karma get those who badly want to put out Imole’s shooting star?
Did Deborah deserve to die because of blasphemy?
And the student who met death on campus?
Who knew death would quickly pluck off the young graduate who went viral for making his papa proud?

Why did doctor Chinelo’s dying breath have to be riddled with mockery from those she shared nationality with?
What of Doctor Diaso? How dare death come crashing down in an elevator?
Why do some have to pay the debt of death in gruesome, gory styles?

Will insurgency and terrorism ever be lost to extinction?
Will kidnappers and ritual killers ever stop their festival of monstrosity?
Avoidable deaths too numerous to count,
Suffering too dreadful to describe or imagine,
And pain too painful to picture in the mind’s eye
When shall we wake up from this nightmare?

READ ALSO: The Poet: Will You Buy My Thoughts?

Do you now hear the shattering sound of my bones
Like the rickety creak of an ancient staircase?
This world, this world weighs down on my shaky shoulders
My heart, this frail heart of mine no longer beats for joy.
Sadness has seen a safe space in my sagging spirit.

A hashtag today, protests and placards tomorrow
If I become a hashtag, will justice find me before I bow to death?
Or will it remember when I’m six feet under?