Oh, Winter...
She says, “Come hither...”

She is an alluring *****
with her pure and virginal whites,
chaste as an egg.  Mm hmm.

Her flash frosts,
her intricate, fleeting diamonds,
her dew when she warms
drips and drops into ******* spears...
She pulls you in.

She pulls on you,
draws you,
milks you to the core.

She whispers “Come hither...”
in her squalls,
but she leaves only shells.
Such small feathered things,
stiffened and dead,
touched by Winter’s hand.

But she is beautiful,
and you...
You can not help yourself.

at a young age,
i learned no one’s safe
when he pulled my tiny frame close,
tugging on my hair,
and not letting go;
i ripped away,
yet failed.

his tongue slithered down my throat,
his hands were cold and hard as stone
against my exterior,
endlessly taking and taking,
and in that moment,
i was numb,
toes frozen,
the screams held within
and arms sewn to the bed
beneath his feet.

my body is stolen and
tainted with his
poisonous sins
gripped within my skin;
i am unclean.

i still feel your eyes trailing along
my abdomen,
burning into my soul,
and your lips bruising my own
as you pressed down harder whilst
fondling every inch of my figure
to no avail.

twelve years later,
with red eyes and a foggy head,
i sleep alone,
fearing that ill drown
in my own sheets.

it was “me too” whom let the devil
consume my innocence
until i was light-headed and limp.

i’ve given up struggling and surviving
for i knew that after that night
i would never be free again,
because,
why live when there’s
no more of me to own?
why fight when i can just die alone?

i’ve left and there’s no going back.

This is not a poem about ****** assault.

This is not a poem about you taking everything from me.

This is not a poem about you taking the little girl I was once and forcing her to see how terrible the world can truly be.

This is not a poem about you taking my 4.0 GPA and shoving it under your bed with the remnants of my underwear.

This is not a poem about you taking the comfort out of physical affection.

This is not a poem about you pretending not to hear me when I begged you to stop.

This is not a poem about me pretending to fall asleep so I could pretend like I didn't remember it happened again.

This is not a poem about you blaming the alcohol.

This is not a poem about you blaming me.

This is not a poem.

You that breaks our clay ***
I come in **** body to gather
The remains, a remains tore
To pieces o Libya

Our laughter shards into cry
Our hustling mocks at us
Our homestead broke in smoke
As we are tools of your slavery

Here
I stand
Here
we stand

At bank shore of African glory
Killed us all enslaved us all
Tied us tie me tie we
o libyan

Push the knife
Pierce it I my bones
**** my blood
it is meant for the ritual

To quench you poverty
to quench you grief
To bring peace and love
Here i am a haunting ghost

Cant
you
see

The shores
The pole
Crying
Human
dying

O libyan
Your days
are numbered
The killing must stop

Written by
Martin Ijir

The shore of Africa is holier than the west
Woodlands of sands flush the fertile sea
Drawing tentacles of colonial thieves
Drawing barbaric notions for terrorism

A weather that flecks pigments of all kinds
Alluvial plains of roses rise above Nile
Ebony texture full with agility
The color black resides in God

Carol of birds chants in my traditional hut
As crystal star light the still night
Our heart is holier than Vatican plight
As god is indoctrinated in extra might

The shore of Arabian gulf
Wields dome of bead of poverty
As the world cry in false mercy
It is the water that drunk our leader's self

As they toil in pilgrimage of self deceit
Followers ignites self discredit
Ready to die and empty self into any pit
They are by products of their fossil wealth

Written by
Martin Ijir