you sit in the corner
think of ways to save her
you walk on eggshells
trail on skull littered paths

He’s nice
he always wants to make things nice
to him is always nice or otherwise
nice, no dice thrown

but she feels blown from the surface of the universe
drowning in the unseen waters
trapped in dirtied gutters
among clutters, suffocating in litters
she feels the mess catching up
trapped on the same side of the mesh with trash

her mind is blocked
as she feels the rocky path pushing her to the rock bottom
there, she can’t block the weight of the heavy Yorks on her shoulders

she gets crushed against the gnashing air
she allows it
but he wants to save her
so she pushes him away
she doesn’t want to be saved

roll up the windows,

whiskey deep in solo cup
draw down the curtains
bake these feels
feel the lace beneath the soles
let her caress her naked soul

he can’t save her,
if he doesn’t know what’s like to be in her world



you never miss the bliss of reminiscing

on wonders of yonder not

but caved and curved

in the distance
far and new

In the between of our skins

bodies in sync

to the beat of our hearts

patience escaping our senses

as we melted in the canopies

of the interlocked limbs

and escalating desires

you never miss to think of

the close brink with no blink

that i got you

mind in ponder,

thoughts a sander

Reason yonder

as you bathed and soaked

on words picked from your mind



pricked and poked

smeared and written on your skin

you miss the bliss

Admit it

I’m addicted to miss

its a nice verb and I’m two months in it


I pry in my head, and I cry till my eyes run dry
I look at my shook self and hook up with books of depression in my nook
May be if I scratch and patch myself up he’ll watch my dimming torch and feel to re-attach
But my damned self is just a framed priceless mosaic painting in his basement
May be, may be if I gnawed on my low cornered hiccups he’ll notice my torment.
Instead, he uses the drained sounds to make stained and strained beats to keep away intruders. Music to his ears
May be if I cry a river, he’ll drown with me, he’s never been a diver, but I groan in a frown as he builds himself a bridge
May be, on my last may be, may be I should just hold my breath, stand still, stop, stroll not, stoop that low, drop that low…
But then, he makes a perfect museum out of me, cobwebs in my armpits, dust under my feet, rust in my bones…
So I I beat myself, so I roast on his cold heat
I want it to feel good
I want it to be the craved mood, but rather
it’s just curved
This kind of love makes me sick, but I’ve never been so well, it makes me frail and pale so I ride this rollercoaster to hell
This kind of love makes me painted with porcelain faces as I harbor innate pain
Pain is seductive when it comes disguised as sacrifice you know
But I stay, I don’t pray, only Lucifer hears prayers in this part of town…

So I stay, I don’t know why I stay anyway


Bullets in my stomach
Abdomen full of ache
My sins in read on my thighs
My head spinning in highs
Tears drenching my face
I sink in beyond trace
Devastations render me hopeless
Payback for my recklessness
There is no coming back from this hell
There’s no escaping these hails


Ours was a to die for kind of relationship,
we were like a lone ship in far away waters,
an island within unknown waters
we loved with the ice on our tongues and fire in our eyes,
we held onto each other with claws than ran deeper than the veins,
and when it stormed thunders were accustomed to our ears as wails were often louder.
Ours was a tough love,
though reckless we knew when it got rough,
I tell you those were the best of times.
Those were the times we destroyed each other into beautiful perfect imperfections,
turned each others skins into an expensive mosaic,
our hearts became a museum that harbored violence in dense,
possessiveness encouraged by unhealthy jealousies and I’ll fallacies.
Sired by the dire need to hold each other in our palms
We were a perfect match, then we forgot matches do burn,
like wood we turned to ashes and in that ashes we still craved each other.
Like impure fuel we burned impulsively into soot and hung clingingly on the roof of our hopes
We got tired of shooting for the stars so we footed for each other.
Perfectly imperfections

I’m wandering through the streets,
the city lights blinding me.
I feel like a foreigner
I stumble from bar to bar
drinking the pain away hoping they’ll drain away my nightmare as they say.
Alcohol burns, it burns the perfect scars
Makes you see the alignment of stars
But now, I’m lost
and I don’t know where to go.
So now I walk towards
the only place I know.
I found him, choking his lungs with smoke and loosing his looming mind in the claustrophobic roofing.
I want to tell him I’m sorry,
to burry the story,
but my slippery sweaty hands are no encouragement to the fury when we can all be merry and drop the worries.
He walks to me and I can feel the walls caving in in a perfect curve as rings of smoke brings me to the norm, home

Demons in my system are awake and fierce like the drake, im frugged through the wakefulness of their ceremonious hails, taking me to him raking my stray thoughts and desires in an explosion in a way that my body got an expulsion from my head

I feel drugged as I get dragged through the ragged thoughts and hots of decision
I’m turned on from the main switch
The hunch tells me he craves the same.
I inhale his exhale and its exhaustively fulfilling,
he grabs my skull with a careless skill and pushed me into the curve of his warm skunky neck digging into my scalp.
My nails are on his lower bare back walking on the scarred skin, skimming and sinking into the deep of the anatomy
We sink to the floor right there and then,
I don’t feel the large pebbles under my feet covered in red soil,
but as I coil in boiled feels I see things.
The lover on whose rib I lie
The four walls whose roof is infested with webs and earthly crabs under which we lie
The rust on the hinges of the door behind which we lie
The thick cloud of smoke in which we lie
The desirably thick carpet of dust on which we lie.
If this isn’t home, it is the closest I’ll ever get to heaven
And I don’t wanna go home now


My first love, which is the prettiest and most catchy phrases across all races and all cultures. It is pretty coming to think of all the first kiss, first date, first snuggle, the first personalized happy after. It is really takes a toll on every aspect when the narration begins and more often you want to dwell in the bulbous moments of the flower and forget about the blooming period leave alone the weathering and withering. But what if I told you first; love is more of a curse, that son of a fucking bitch that never leaves your senses to work in peace without a pop up here and there. What if I told you first love is more of an asshole that never seems to forget to rain tones of shit on every tiny chance of happiness and glitter moments. First love, is an agent of a mother fucker that never lets blessings to commune with you. Oh, where are my manners, my name is jael and this is my story of the pursuit of happiness.

Let’s sail, shall we?


I met him on my way to the second class of the day on an abnormally boring Wednesday when the sun was holding nothing back from frying the surface OF THE earth and everything that dwells on it, and me well, I wasn’t spared. I met him when my mind was on vacation and my body was on go slow save a few snaps of the finger and movement of the lashes as extracurricular.  I met him when I thought I needed to and he had no otherwise. He had the height of my secret lover and oval face with a square jaw and not to forget a very wide smile, I swear I could drown in it. That perfect dental arrangement fit perfectly to the smile that crowned a very sensuous and delicious body. I met him at a time of the day that no one else seemed to exist, and all of a sudden the world was between me and him and all the laws of nature seemed broken or nurtured by me,cause  boy, gravity had nothing on me.

At that very moment my whole body was starting to corporate and I had this thing going in my system that needed my attention. Let me tell you about the bad thing of being a creative writer, you see when such perfection of god’s creation presents itself in such an embodiment especially on this flamboyantly hot afternoon, the first thought is to feed your eyes, tell you what I was feeding my brain. I could produce countless articles with a single sweep of the eyes across the arena and this creature was making me drown in my creation.

At that very moment I didn’t know his name but I was about to find out how he liked his coffee in the morning. I didn’t know if he preferred fame or framed pictures but his body was already in my frame. That ladies and gentlemen is how I missed my criminology class.

I’ve always been a go for it kind of girl even when the society depicts otherwise setting standards that will otherwise render females of my caliber rebellious in a way and out of character. I call it a form of freedom of expression. See, I have a belief that if you really need something, then you should do whatever it take to pay for the price. You shouldn’t apologize for carrying your own spear, being your own warrior.

I met him again on my way to the library the following day having had enough of sun basking in the solar. He smiled from a few blocks away. I am a generous lass, having laid down the foundation of the good news, I let him preach the gospel. From the movement of the words on his tongue, I could tell the boy had the taste for the wine. And then…

‘jael right?’

I smiled back as an agreement. I would have punched his guts out had he gotten it wrong. No, I’m kidding, I’d probably just correct him and walk down the path that I will erase to ensure he doesn’t find it back. Yeah I know, I am an emotional badass lass.

So we walk to the entry point. Cues, chits, chats, pointers here and there and he takes a left. Mother of hades!  Fuck me, who doesn’t love a man in uniform, dear man of medicine. I smile, a wet smile as I jump into my arts wagon, third floor. My writing fanatics, brace yourself because it’s going to be a bumpy ride. Oh, at this point you deserve to know his name. Nathan is his name.


I have bumped into him several times now to earn us both a lunch together the following week. Followed by a next and then a next and then a regular and before I know it, I am bailing on classes and my other friends to be with this god of the hearts and an artist of the body. See, I was love sick and I needed a doctor, my man of medicine. My water is warming up and I’m freaking excited. My god looks at me as if I am a floating goddess of beauty and sexual rapture, I don’t shy away, I chin up and embrace the crown.

And then it hits me, what the hell. That’s the thing about first love, you want everything and nothing, you crave independence and possession, you desire the fierceness of fire yet you are sired to the chill of the ice. But nonetheless, you are hooked and there is no turning back. There is a fire inside of you hot and fierce like the volcanic eruptions and spreading so quickly like the wild fires but all you can show the world under the sky is a smile worth a few cents.

I had my first love kiss at the bus stop, that’s when the gates of paradise were opened. He asked me to be his girl at the end of semester party and I could swear there were fireworks right in that moment. I could swear that I was wearing glass slippers. My Nathan was perfectly perfect, countless times I have had to remind him that he was enough despite his urge to try and be more. Life was perfect, until the birth of new moon.

The lunch dates were frequent and became a wild norm. The movie nights became a habit. The scent of his skin found an acceptable home in my sheets. Our arms became a domicile for each other. We became accustomed to each other like we were enchanted. Our hearts were scarred with each other’s names and our lips sang the same song. It was a small cocoon full of good things, but then good things don’t last. Good things have an end, good things disappear suddenly, and good things have legs, good things end when you wake up. Good things have a tendency of taking onto their heels when you least expect it. The dawn was quickly approaching before it was even darkest.

Nathan failed to show up for our 11th month anniversary. May be we grew apart, may be it was part of the first love thing, and may be the flower was finally withering, may be it was about time. Or maybe I got there too early for once. I hate it when the bell rings, okay most of the times. It always means the end of something, the beginning of something less familiar. It mean goodbyes, I hate goodbyes, I’m better at hellos.

The thought of starting all over again is discouraging. The norm is comfortable like the perfect fit of the heel, it is doable, and it is like a ritual. It’s predictable.

He didn’t pick my call that evening. I sat into the wee hours of the night on my suddenly ocean-like bed thoughts spread all over it, scattered into things, tiny droplets  of nothingness. I held my heart clenched tightly in my fist as the nails dug deeply into the sole of my palms. I tucked gently with hostility the sting of my tears under my lashes as i  cornered my hiccups deep in my throat and screams in the echoes of my voice. I hid my anger, disappointments and breakages deep in my morphology and far from semantics of my everyday language.


And when it happened, all heaven and hell broke loose.



p.s its been super ling since i posted, but thank you for the continued support.





The time…
The place…
The chosen location…

The hotel…
The bar…
The secret liaison…


The drinking…
The flirting…
The meeting of minds…

The room…
The blindfold…
The ties that bind…


The longing…
The wanting…
The lack of conversation…

The holding…
The kissing…
The electrified sensations…


The touching…
The stroking…
The whisper and the moans…

The trusting…
The giving…
The heightened sexual zone…


The licking…
The sucking…
The taste of Hell’s fire…

The lusting…
The fucking…
The room spins with desire…


The senses…
The sensual…
The utter giving in…

The Devil…
The Demons…
The climax full of sin…

The seconds…
The minutes…
The time just flashes by…

The daylight…
The morning…
The unspoken goodbyes…


The guilt…
The shame…
The moment of regret…

The memories…
The flashbacks…
The reluctance to forget…


The message…
The apology…
The dreaded parting words…

The acceptance…
The sadness…
The ending of the world…


The dreams…
The nightmares…
The always wanting more…

The danger…
The excitement…
The chance of an encore…


The time…
The place…
The secret liaison…

The wrong…
The right…
The recurring temptation…

p.s darling, your picture suited the piece, once again.

thank you brazeal



Something is off,
something is not right
Something is indifferent
She is different, she feels the difference
Its a clear inference
But she stays in deterrence
Her feels only doing the utterance

She still touches you, but she no longer feels you

She looks at you, but she no longer sees you. She talks to you, but she no longer communicates with you.

She’s with you, but she is no longer present with you.

Like she used to
You’ve lost her.

You think it’s the beginning of the end,

when the truth is that it ended long ago.
It ended when you weren’t looking when staring

it ended when you weren’t paying attention while taking notes
It ended when the minutes to respond to your text message turned into hours, missed calls and ‘busy’ schedules.

It ended when she stopped initiating the conversation with you and you turned elsewhere

It ended when enjoying each other’s company turned into uncomfortable silence,

Each visit turned to war zones

It ended when she stopped telling you what was on her mind because you stopped asking.
You were hearing her, but you stopped listening to her.

The silence became commonplace.

It became home.

It became normal

You thought the silence meant that she had nothing to say,

when it was actually screaming at you that something was wrong.

You told her you loved her,

but you stopped showing it.

She wondered if you meant a word you said
You were careless with her love, her time,

and worst of all,

her heart.

You left her starving, emotionally

You forgot that love must be maintained and tended to every single day, not sporadically.

You forgot that you have to love her when you’re tired.

You forgot that you have to love her when you had a bad day.

You forgot that you have to love her when you’re angry.

You forgot that you have to love her when she’s angry.

You forgot that you have to love her when it’s difficult to love her.

That’s how you lost her.


Fists clenched

Nails drilling into the flesh

Fresh sweat cascading

Flesh bruising, 

turning bloody

Skin tearing

Muscles tightened

Air rigid, frightened

Teeth gritting


Moods feisty

Eyes burning

Pouring into the ocean of flames

Face converting

Into a perfect superhighway to hell

Thoughts frying into hades haven

Senses on vacation

Heart in suffocation

Ears turned to lava

Lovers turned to enemies

Frenemies from friendship

Petal fingers to trigger fingers

Bell ringers of red flags

Murder thought lingers

Swords shinning

Arrows flying, the armour is down

And when we fight,
We tear each other apart

Cause if I can’t have you

Noone shall; my love

P.s thanks buddies(Dan and Abbas) for the inspiring picture. (Friends who understand your mental lenses disorder)


So today is the last day of the month! Oh! damn it, of the year. So I feel like writing something free style, not a poem, not a prose, not something  constricted or constructed within the canopies of writing. I just wanna write.

First, (oh my goodness, I’m soo thrilled I can feel the feels filling and drilling right through this steel seals of emotions) I met a boy. Well, I met  whole lot male species in the entire year, but there’s something about this particular specimen of the male specie. 

I call him a boy cause he makes me feel like a 20 year old toddler, chasing butterflies and plucking buttercups with flutter moods and limbs that dart up and down the stairs in pairs with a resounding musical number again and again. I can’t even remember a toddler me doing that.

I call him a boy be cause he makes me feel rainfall and rainbows and coloured  bows and candies in places that were once filled with gloomier tales and tells, yells of happily ever never and mostly sprinkled with ash. This boy makes me feel colors from red to pink to yellow to sky blue, makes me see scents of chocolates and sweets.

This boy is strange, he is a stranger in a stranger world, in an entranged world sort of thing. He smiles with his heart, he laughs with his soul, he touches with his nerves, he talks with his spirit. There’s is something in the way he moves, proven in the way he touches and loves,so delicately like holy waters down  river, the way words roll out of his cocaine coated tongue cause boy, I’m addicted.

This boy, this boy is a boy of science and I think Hades, why again. Me and boys of science! This boy has a thing for stars, call him astrophel, proly that’s why he’s still struck, but im stuck on this boy. This boy of science is different. Stars and machines.

He wakes me up from my slumber and reminds me that its the last Saturday, I gotta go to  Goethe institute for a forum of women in literature, like how the fuck did he even remember that. He’s sad he can’t go with me, but promises to take me to fatumas voice. It has become one of our favourite end of week thing. But this means I have to stay late or with him in a pub watching Manchester united dry cook with him on some occasions, I dont mind. It gets me on the grove.

This boy, he massages my sour legs when I come back slightly injured from a taekwondo sparring and training. He doesn’t tell me to stop, he says “oh boy, who was your sparring partner? I pity…” I want to tell him that its no use, I couldn’t get that hook kick right, and every time I try I spin, I fall. I want to tell him, I’m scared I’m gonna let my team down this coming tournament. That I’m not even sure.

But he sees it all and says,”hey, if you want a black belt, its gonna be sweat, sometimes painful than this, but it’s worth it…”

This boy of science is a boy  magic and awesomeness.

I’m seated here, in this room filled with shots and snaps of his memories, memoirs of his presence. Sometimes I get scared, sometimes I cry, just a little but deeply. I tear inside, and I crack a little bit. What if I’m not enough for this boy? What if this boy that gets drawn so much into things that don’t make him him and loses his spark. See, when this boy makes me feel like a toddler, I dont think, cause when I do, my mind will tell me to stop doing the flips, cause I’m safer on my feet. It will tell me to stop chasing butterflies and plucking buttercups, that cattterpillars are disgusting and I might a sting.

My mind will recognize risk more fluently, and I’d want to run away, sway from his lane, block all the rays. It’ll tell me there’s no use, they all run away eventually. It’ll tell me its a play, prank play, cards on the table and king of hearts will be showing spades.

I wipe away the tear, plug in the earphones and go for a run.

Its the 31st day of the month of December, the year is 2017. Tonight, I won’t be calling anyone, tonight I won’t be crying, tonight is the day I balance. 22nd day of the month of December, I wrote the most sincere words, tonight we fit the dress see how it looks, put the words into actions.

I shut the door, open the front.

Let’s turn this boy into a man…


Pictures courtesy of Hesbon and Abaas, thanks mates. Tkd family