The breaking-

The breaking-

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It wasn’t just one experience, it was a multitude of them. One after the other like the crash of a carefully assembled dominos cards; in succession. I slid slowly and then rapidly, hitting a few bumps along the way, like I wasn’t already on my way to the bottom. And I learnt on that downward journey, I learnt the bitter truth that rock bottom does not guarantee you won’t still get hit.

I watched the solid parts of me break into pieces, the liquid of my essence dissolve and gaseous parts evaporate. I was losing who I had ever known myself to be.

It took watching my whole life vanish before eyes for me to realise what life had been trying to teach me for quite some time. Sometimes, you have to shatter into pieces in order to mould into the “you”, you were always supposed to be.

What love is-

What love is-

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They say,
This- is what love is,
But you wouldn’t know now,
Would you?… referring to me,
A rendition, much like,
The sensational rhymes
Of a love poem,
Pours out of them.

I listen,
I have to-
An emotion which seems to be
An equivalent, to the way
I gaze at a cup of
Steaming black coffee,
Enchanted by the
Swirls of its steam;
Anticipation,
of that first sip.

An emotion which almost,
Feels like the yearning
With which I wrap myself
Around my one gifted duvet,
A visit,
Whose end I dread.

An emotion akin to
The warmth which embraces me
Each moment I happen,
Upon the words of my lord.
Pleasant to the ears,
Soothing to the soul.

An emotion which almost,
Almost feels like the cause,
Of my heart to bit a little faster,
At the sight of my study table;
Always another book to read.
How I hate them.
Oh, how I love them.

But they say-
I do not know what love is.
Maybe, I don’t.

The beautiful picture above Is courtesy of Pinterest.

The best things-

The best things-


They say good things don’t last forever,
But I believe the best things do,

Like the rising of the sun each day,
Reflecting it’s golden beams.

The moon each night unfailingly,
Illuminating night’s darkness.

The rise and fall of ocean waves,
Which never cease to occur.

This planet, 3 hundred and 65 days
Revolving around the sun,

Sending love through Rays and sunbeams,
Each day from dawn till dusk.

The stars in all of their beauty,
Shining gallantly in the sky,

Piercing through the darkened layers,
To comfort the moon at night;

They say good things don’t last forever,
They- who can’t comprehend our love,

If breathing is a necessity for life,
Then you- my dear, are my lungs.

Writer’s Quote- Gwen Harwood

Writer’s Quote- Gwen Harwood

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I have to confess. I look forward to Wednesdays on this blog, where I get to share some of my favourite poems written by other authors with you guys. Today’s poem is titled “in the park” by Gwen Harwood. It’s a powerful pessimistic poem about a woman who has sacrificed so much for her children, she has given up her life so that they can have theirs. And rather than the emotion of joy and pride in her children, the character in the poem, feels and weary and resentment which is manifested in the line where she says- “they have eaten me alive”.

In Nigeria, especially the northern part, many women stay in marriages which are sometimes volatile and abusive simply for the sake of their kids. They view they’d rather take on the torment than leave their kids in the hands of the abusive partner or raise their kids in a broken home. According to an analysis by U.K. Essays, the dominant reading of the poem is that, for certain women, motherhood can be a burden. Sometimes when a woman’s life predominantly revolves around looking after her children, her sense of worth is devalued.” I’ld like to add, the above quote is not my opinion, but solely an analysis of the poem.

In The park by Gwen Harwood

She sits in the park. Her clothes are out of date.
Two children whine and bicker, tug her skirt.
A third draws aimless patterns in the dirt
Someone she loved once passed by – too late

to feign indifference to that casual nod.
“How nice” et cetera. “Time holds great surprises.”
From his neat head unquestionably rises
a small balloon…”but for the grace of God…”

They stand a while in flickering light, rehearsing
the children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweet
to hear their chatter, watch them grow and thrive, ”
she says to his departing smile. Then, nursing
the youngest child, sits staring at her feet.
To the wind she says, “They have eaten me alive.”

N- Nothingness

N- Nothingness

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I’ve felt the arms of sadness,
wrapped around me,
Engulfing,
Pulled deep into-
its trenches;
Where light,
At first visible,
Dims without one
Realising it.

I’ve felt the soft hands of joy,
Pulsating,
Overwhelming,
Thronged into its
Never ending fantasies
Dreams,
Delusions,
Future created,
Where light and only
Light is seen,
Where darkness
Does not exist-
In that moment.

But the arms of nothingness
Cannot be compared.
The coldest of place,
The hardest of state;
A prison cell with an
open door,
Which you can’t escape.
For how can you walk out
A free man,
When you don’t even know
You’re in jail.

B- Baby in heaven

B- Baby in heaven

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Silence blankets the room,
I see your pale feet,
Hanging,
From a gloved hand-
Silence blankets the room.

Joy washes over me-
9 months of weight,
18 hours of- my God-
Torturous pain,
Relief washes over me, but
Silence blankets the room.

A life- I have carried a life,
A symbol- of my other half,
A sign- we were meant to be,
My baby- I see his feet
But-
Silence blankets the room.

Silence blankets the room,
Seconds turn to minutes,
My baby’s chest-
Doesn’t move,
His voice- goes unheard,
Eyes…
It dawns on me as,
Silence blankets the room.


Towards the end of last year, i did six weeks of obs and gynae shift. I saw Joy, pain and loss. I remember a patient who was in the hospital from 9am to around 7pm who was in labour, with the knowledge that the baby was dead. I can’t even imagine the strength it takes to go through the pain of childbirt, knowing the baby within has no heartbeat. And my sister (also a medical student) saw a similar case, and this time, it was actulaly triplets, To lose three kids all at the same time… For me, these women are survivors.

The beautiful image above is courtesy of Pinterest/ Anything will do

Writing because-

Writing because-

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“It’s not just the writing”, she said,
It’s the looking back at a formerly white page, now transformed into a confluence of rugged slanting black ink. Words, which were formerly a jumble in your head. And you stare at the piece of paper, wondering who on Earth could possible read that, jumble.
You crumble it up, dumping it at the back of your room, the back of your thoughts until…

yes, until, someday. Days, months, maybe even years. You find that crumbled piece of paper you had denounced into rubbish. A forgotten piece of work. Your eyes move across the page, word after word, line after line and everything you ever wrote down is exactly what you need to hear at the moment. And the words you had once upon a time sought refuge with cannot contain the bucket of emotion brewing up within you. What you once thought was rubbish, looks like a masterpiece. How time changes everything.

——“nothing is ever wasted”, she said, “so write today, not just for the present, because not everyone will appreciate it, but because someday, those same words might be exactly what you’d need to hear”.

Writer’s Quote: Personal

Writer’s Quote: Personal

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I was planning on skipping this week’s writers quote post because it has been a roller coaster kind of week, as evidenced by my lack of posts. But then, something happened today which I took personally. I know I shouldn’t take it personal because it’s really that small, but guess what, I am human and it hurt me and I took it personally. It’s almost midnight so hopefully, tomorrow, I wouldn’t feel the same way. But for now, here is a poem by Tony Hoagland titled Personally

Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—

the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,

the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me

and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.

The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,

and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.

Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk

Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts

but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;

I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,

I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back

and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries

like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.

Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?

You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.

I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:

trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.

Have you ever taken things personally when it’s probably trivial and you know you shouldn’t take it personal too?

The above image is courtesy of Behappy.me

Resilience-

Resilience-

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Last night,
My walls crumbled down;
The roof above me,
caved in;
My skin tightened,
Flesh upon flesh
With blood rapidly pulsating.
This must be it,
I thought to myself;
This can’t be it,
I declared;
A brewing storm,
On my insides-
My throat, my eyes-
Blazing.

Tonight,
It all seems distant past;
There’s something
To be said about-
Resilience.
Last night I said-
This can’t be it;
And my Lord,
He got me through it.

The above image was gotten from Pinterest

Writer’s Quote: How frail the heart must be-

Writer’s Quote: How frail the heart must be-

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For this week’s writer’s quote, I want to try something different. But of course, it requires you guys to play along. So, last time, I shared the poem “thoughtless cruelty” by Charles Lamb. This week, what I’m going to do is share a poem and leave it up to you guys to guess the author. Are you ready? Okay.

The author wrote the poem below at the bare age of fourteen. I am almost 21 and I can only hope to write as good as that some day. When the author was asked regarding the poem, she said “Once a poem is made available to the public, the right of interpretation belongs to the reader”. I absolutely agree with that. Here is the poem below:

I thought that I could not be hurt;
I thought that I must surely be
impervious to suffering-
immune to pain
or agony.

My world was warm with April sun
my thoughts were spangled green and gold;
my soul filled up with joy, yet
felt the sharp, sweet pain that only joy
can hold.

My spirit soared above the gulls
that, swooping breathlessly so high
o’erhead, now seem to brush their whir-
ring wings against the blue roof of
the sky.

(How frail the human heart must be-
a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing-
a fragile, shining instrument
of crystal, which can either weep,
or sing.)

Then, suddenly my world turned gray,
and darkness wiped aside my joy.
A dull and aching void was left
where careless hands had reached out to
destroy

my silver web of happiness.
The hands then stopped in wonderment,
for, loving me, they wept to see
the tattered ruins of my firma-
ment

(How frail the human heart must be-
a mirrored pool of thought. So deep
and tremulous an instrument
of glass that it can either sing,
or weep).

As I asked at the beginning, who do you know write the poem? Looking forward to your answers in the comments, come on, don’t hide your knowledge. 🙂