My poetry aims to provoke thought and reflection on complex themes of love, lust, and the myriad emotions surrounding humanity. I particularly focused on the raw and often troubling nature of ****** arousal, especially from a male perspective. I wanted to shed light on the painful experiences of women who have endured encounters with womanizers—those whose advances leave a lingering sense of disgust and apprehension. For many, the refrain “once bitten, twice shy” resonates deeply; a reminder of the scars left by past experiences.

Moreover, I draw parallels between politics and personal relationships. Just as politicians are often driven by ambitions of power and prestige—neglecting the true happiness of the masses—so too can intimate interactions become one-sided and manipulative. There’s a piercing moment of vulnerability that comes with being stripped bare emotionally, akin to the experience of a medium rare steak: tender yet exposed, much like the hollow feeling of a faked ******—both experiences leaving one feeling undone.

Among my body of work, I treasure a poem titled “Free *****,” which embodies my wish to let my thoughts roam freely across the vast expanse of the internet. I released my words into the digital ether, hoping they would reach hearts and minds far beyond my immediate surroundings. To my delight, my poems resonated with thousands of readers, sparking a dialogue filled with interpretations and reflections. Many of them encouraged the idea of self-love, urging me to appreciate not only my work but also the journey that birthed it.

What this world truly craves, I believe, is love—sweet love—rather than the pervasive bitterness of hate. I yearn to set my poem free, allowing it to travel far and wide, carried by the currents of thought and emotion, touching lives and fostering connection.

Be quiet so you won’t be heard anymore. You might have heard this phrase growing up. Why do people think it’s their job to silence others and stop them from speaking freely?

Every spoken word should be heard, like a loud ringtone from a cell phone that signals someone is calling. Everyone deserves to be heard.

My grandparents and parents believed they should silence me as a poet when I was a child. At one point, I found it hard to speak up. People kept asking why I was so shy. Why was I afraid to talk to adults? My shyness turned into social anxiety. With my friends, though, I spoke confidently. Adults intimidated me because they used commanding language: “Be quiet so you won’t be heard anymore.”

As an adult, I struggle to follow orders or deal with condescension. Maybe that’s why I love writing so much. When I write, only I can hear my voice. It wasn’t until I shared my work that I let others see my thoughts. I had stayed silent for too long and held back my feelings for too long. I decided to confront those who silenced me with my own spoken words.

"Language is powerful; it is the greatest science. It captures the fullness, color, and diversity of the world and of people. It is more valuable than wealth, buildings, ships, religions, paintings, or music." — Walt Whitman.

He captured her charm, serenity, and intelligence in his work. He frequently glanced from the canvas to her face. Asking her not to smile was like asking her not to breathe; patience wasn’t her strong suit.

What’s in a smile? Beauty, and everything! It was a shame that it didn’t showcase a young woman in her prime, the one everyone came to know and love. Her strong features and openness transcended the warmth of a morning rose blooming in spring.

Instead, he painted an autumn theme rather than the warmth of spring. The shape of her face and the curve of her lips were striking, yet they seemed inadequate for someone destined to be a future queen.

That was how I captured him while he slept. That was two years ago. He never contributed anything meaningful to our relationship. Was it love, or was it compassion? I remember those two years well. I told him I would forever love him. What did he do? He sold the link to our happiness. He sold the bike, GH 6615.

Those two years were a peaceful interlude for us, a reminder that what’s in a smile is not always what we think it is.
If I were a carpenter and you were a lady,

Saturday Morning Routines**

The familiar smell of wood smoke slowly filled my bedroom, wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. Through my window, I caught sight of the warm, flickering lights from the flambeau, casting dancing shadows on the walls. It was in that moment that I knew it was time to leave the warmth of my bed. The deep, gravelly voice of old man Sealy drifted up to me as he directed his right-hand man to place another log on the fire, ensuring it remained a blazing beacon of warmth.

With a sense of purpose, I slipped into my trusty rubber rain boots, the ones I always wore for early morning adventures, and made my way toward the barn. The soft light of dawn was just beginning to break, illuminating the world in gentle hues of pink and gold.

As I approached, I heard Pappy’s voice calling out, “Hey there, small point! Where do you think you’re going? You should be back in bed!”

But I was determined. I wanted to witness the ritual of pigs being slaughtered, an experience that held both fascination and a sense of solemnity for me. Each Saturday morning, old man Sealy would carry out this age-old tradition on my granddad’s farm. It was a process that ensured the villagers had access to fresh meat—pork, beef, chicken, and lamb—straight from the heart of the countryside.

Pappy had instilled in me a sense of purpose when he often said, "Do not handicap the children by making their lives easy." His words echoed in my mind as I made my way to the pig pens. I felt a mix of trepidation and excitement as I approached, ready to observe the harsh realities of farm life.

As I stood there, I watched the pigs squirm and squeal violently, their cries filled with panic as they sensed what was coming. The lambs trembled nearby, their fearful eyes darting around as they desperately struggled against their fate.

As a young child, I had always understood that these animals were raised to become food. Yet, with the passage of time and a deeper understanding of life and death, I now look back on those mornings with a blend of nostalgia and sadness. Despite the grim circumstances,
I found joy in the camaraderie of those moments, particularly while grilling meat on a stick alongside the village butcher, surrounded by laughter and stories of days gone by.

These vivid childhood memories of the slaughterhouse remain with me, serving as a poignant reminder of the cycle of life and its complexities. What stories do you hold from your own childhood experiences?

A list of tasks to accomplish before I embrace love again:

I envision my mind wandering through expansive fields where patches of grass lie brown. A single wildflower stands out among the scattered pebbles beneath my feet. Memories linger, taunting me alongside the bare trees with their bent trunks. A cool breeze brushes against my face; the once reliable umbrella tree is gone, leaving me exposed to the sun's relentless rays. I squint against the brightness.

It's time to decide: Will I dwell on the ghosts of my past, or will I focus on the warmth of the sun shining down? I have a clear list of goals to achieve before I open my heart to love again. I've put the pain behind me—it's my choice to lower the drawbridge or keep the enemy at bay.

When I fall in love again, I will be happier than ever before. I've buried those painful memories beneath the bare umbrella trees, and I refuse to let them control my future. I reflect on past loves that took me for granted. Should I forgive them? Or should I reject their memories altogether?

My tears will become the moisturizer that nurtures my spirit as I dig deeper into the fertile soil of my thoughts. I will honor each name with my tears and finally put those chapters to rest.

The Wicket-Keeper


Today, I learned that a lover I once cherished has passed away. Just yesterday, he was alive, and I never imagined I would feel this way about him. It’s strange how I rarely think about the rain unless it floods my drains, my driveway, or my beloved rose garden, or dampens my happy mood. Yet, here I am, grappling with a deep sadness over his death.

The tender moments we shared will always be etched in my memory, even amidst the ups and downs that relationships bring. Our past was filled with challenges, perhaps I was mistaken, or maybe he was right. But tonight, I find myself reflecting on the love we had. He was my old lover, the wicketkeeper, someone I held dear in my heart, now a distant memory that I will always carry with me.

Coral and Limestone**

You can take the country out of me, but the essence of acid lime runs through my veins like an indelible mark of my heritage. Growing up on the island was a unique blessing, where the roots of kinship ran deep and everyone seemed connected by an invisible thread. It was a place where every child knew everyone else's name, and my grandmother, affectionately called Nana, was a beloved matriarch to every little boy and girl in our neighborhood.

As barefoot rats, we wandered freely, our skin kissed by the sun and our laughter echoing through the verdant fields. Parenting in those days was tough love; it wasn’t so much about sparing the rod and spoiling the child, but more about corrections delivered through gentle slaps and back slaps that reminded us of the importance of respect and discipline. Misbehaving was never condoned, and there were no rewards for bad behavior back then.

What I treasure most are the sun-drenched afternoons spent playing outside—running wild amid the soft, prickly grass, chasing vibrant rainbow butterflies fluttering in the warm breeze until the aroma of dinner wafted through the air, summoning us home. I recall the bright sunshine juxtaposed against weeks of refreshing rain, our small island alive with the sounds of nature and the scent of the earth after a downpour. The sense of community was palpable; even the less fortunate neighbors always looked out for one another, embodying a spirit of care that resonated deeply.

There was a peculiar taste to the ground beneath my feet—as if it were infused with lime. I can still picture my cousin, unabashed, munching on chunks of dirt, much to Nana's dismay. Each time, she'd scold him, stressing the importance of clean habits. Yet, every other weekend, we endured our little rituals of castor oil or cod-liver oil, doses that made our bodies shiver with discomfort. Nana called it “cleansing our little souls” and claimed it would build strong bones and teeth, instilling in us the resilience we needed.

Our island was a paradise of coral and limestone, dotted with endless stretches of sugarcane fields that sweetened the air with their fragrance. The tropical rainy season was a vibrant tapestry of life, enriched by resources like petroleum, fish, and natural gas that thrived in our warm climate. What more could any child ask for, other than the simple joys of happiness and safety?

Reflecting on those days, I am enveloped in warm memories of the tender island winds that danced over the hills during breezy afternoons. How could I not give back to this land that shaped my very being?

My heart will forever find its home on the coral and limestone earth,
where the pride and industrious spirit of our little island stand as enduring symbols of our identity. Motto