If I had a title..

Stagnation bleeding into deprivation
A regression in gestation,
seems my mind’s been on vacation

Observer

iris: I

        risk

    my 

        sight as I peer into your life. 

Wonder

Maybe I’ve rushed,

thinking life needed to start here now & like this  

Maybe I’ve not started,

waiting for strife to end here now & like this

Maybe they coincide;

perhaps life here,

is meant to be lived in the now,

even alongside strife,

just like this

Palindrome

My limit

It’s limitless

My sky knows no boundaries;

what lining of which cloud?

There is no end,

we only beg for the means to an end,

we only begin

 

Every fresh start is the tail of an end and every end begs to begin

Don’t tell,

no don’t dare

to pen the woes of completion’s friend–

don’t push me to bend that I may contort my frame into a twisted cage of mess,

screaming and squeezing to ascended depths of excess stress,

digested mess

 

My limit has no end

No final lap to bend

You’ll beg for the means to an end, 

cutting off all buds blooming into your hands

 

There is no end,

we always begin

The notebook

Your poetry is a beautiful expansion of a glass-stained soul

Be it timid, or with tumult, your soul is lined with life’s notes

Another thought

(..powerful when spoken..I encourage you to read this aloud..enjoi.)

My life is a thought, a thought to continue

I’ve yet to find the beginning and the end is far from near

I’m looking down and every wicked desire I have ever wanted has become mine,

in just this instant, in just this time

I’m looking up.

I’m finally looking up.

My life is a thought,

in thought,

made up of my thoughts that I’ve believed

Mixed good with the bad,

and I’ve believed in my bad far more than I’ve known my light

Open a mind

and that life’s design

to renewed views, loves and truths

Shift thought,

Shift schema,

Shift minds,

change time.

Acne & Guns

Festering pockets of warm fear–

parallel tears chasing and comforting one another as they free fall to new depths,

it was only this morning this rebel was a child.

See the youth in his stance, as knocked-knees beg for mercy.

Immaturity lives in his eyes as they flailingly search for directions in unanswered query.

Watch him pull a trigger, and be forced back by a strength greater than his will to stand.

Gunpowder entering his lungs, staining his sight, dirtying the stark resolve once sheltered in a now stone-cold, lifeless, still murmuring heart.

His heart is quiet and his spine, without life.

Even still, he feels

Death his daily bread, he begs to be stilled, filled.

Festering pockets burst and leak his resolve down, down, down past craters of his face.

Bloodied only after incessant manipulation,

it was only this morning this rebel was a child.

M.Kanu

*this poem was written yesterday, I just didn’t post! Hope you love it and share!

A poem a day…

I’m a lover of varied interests, and by now I’ve firmly cultivated a deep love for poetry. You may think, how does a fashion blog relate to poetry? Easy; expression is realized through more than one medium so whether I’m wearing it, singing it, or writing it, my thought has power.

To challenge my creativity and get out of the mindset of waiting for inspiration (which, is essential but doesn’t quite push for growth), I’ll be writing an original poem every day. I hope that many of you who share my love of written expression will join and grow with me, or even if you’re not a writer, I hope that this poetry can spark seeds of creation within us all.

Mariama

Perhaps never

All the world could fall for the shine in those eyes, the same way I did

It very much was like meeting the sun,

they burnt with vigor that scalded my soul and all at once made me want to forever capture those swirling lights in my every memory

That light, so emaciated and unloved, it twitches in anguish like darkness in the presence of God

It vanishes and appears,

giving weight to my notions of insanity

Surely my mind must be a twisted visual effect of confusion for me to so horribly cross these signals

Ever more distant, the dialtone became the ringtone

He’s sliding into that roladex of old contacts, a continually revolving door out of which comes me, and just me, every time

We enter, and amongst the chaos and silence, a kinetic connection between our skin and our fire seems to be dangling for dear life over the edge of the earth

 

Run run run and catch the sharp edge without slicing your fingers

Run run run to save a love, but it shall not be spared

Could there ever be another, I wondered, that would shine so brightly my reflection glimmering in those deep, dark pools would be enough to inspire this worn heart?

Perhaps

Perhaps not

Perhaps never

Pebble, mold

Float on and be molded by the waters that carry you
With each curve comes a tale unlike the one before
For every cracked and indented crevice of your surface reveals a new you
This one and that, identical only in name, sliced you in new ways you had yet to imagine

Sink and be lifted by the currents which wash you to and fro
The wonder of the world shines blood orange from the bottom, it
drips of honey as you settle into the dust
So rise and be washed anew with the divine push of love on your every sweetened crevice
On your every crevice will be etched, me
And you on mine

Move with water and against the currents
Reveal that trueness which shows itself only when probed
Against these currents be smoothed until one crevice becomes another and your cuts are invisible to eyes
Float on and be molded until there is no more
Until there is nothing left and you gracefully slip through the binds that hold you
Fall apart and fall together, and behold, through this only will you be whole
Pebble, mold
Pebble, mold
Pebble, mold with stars on your tongue and wonder in your eyes
Pebble, mold for each crevice and each burn that shall make you complete
Just mold
Pebble, mold

-M. Kanu