Read me like poetry
Perform my surgery
Tell what am I
                     to you
                     and to me?

i have a sadness lurking in me
the base of every poem i write
the core of my love
as i give myself papercuts
from your letters
and your poems
and i sit quietly
in the shadow
of your starlight.

winter's melancholy cold
as we fry in Satanic heat
a Hell of our own making

we cut the earth and made her bleed
for greed and war and hate and waste

It is clear—
Like the sunny sky.
I went through this wrong,
So why must I follow everyone,
Believe their description of Him,
When they never touched Him
Like I did?
I understand—this is faith:
Knowing you might be wrong,
But not caring.
This is it, the final nail—
I shall carve my path,
With Him as my guide,
With pride and strength.
And if I am wrong?
So what.
This is my faith—
My unstoppable force,
My unmovable mountain.
— Oyeneyin Olufemisayo A.

Why is it only when we cry
When we feel in despair
That our life is broken
Beyond repair
That we cannot be fixed

That with open heart
We finally turn to God
Hands full of broken parts
That we can finally say
I am so sorry, dear God

Can you please help me

I bite.
Not with teeth.
with silence,
with sharp glances,
with walls built higher than your reach.

I’m not cruel.
I’m just tired
of being kind first
and torn apart second.

You call it attitude.
I call it armor.
Because being soft
never saved me.
It only made the fall hurt more.

So I speak less now.
Agree less.
Trust less.
I pull away before someone has the chance
to walk out first.

It’s not that I don’t want love.
I’ve learned that even “I care about you”
can come with conditions.
Even soft hands
can leave bruises
you can’t see.

I bite
because once,
I didn’t.
And it nearly broke me.