Art Gallery Through My pen

My hearts racing as i write this,

I let my ink flow to ignite words.

Words I can't explain but have meaning.

Words, I can’t see but you feel them,

As I sit in my art gallery.

I wonder, the lyrics struck me like lighting as the

Beat blasted like thunder.

Do I know what I signed up for?

Would I be the one or a view in the side mirror?

The gallery is set to steal your heart

As each word rips my world apart

I did this, saying my truth.

I did this for me but most importantly for you

Comments

Mixed

I've imagined different versions of you, searching for the mystery behind your essence. But imagination is a world unbound by reality. You were the first to make a dream of mine come true—just by being yourself. I'd read you every day, even as books gathered dust on my shelf. Beauty and pain are two sides of the same coin, Which is why I never judge a book by its cover—though sometimes, I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe the character arc is just too captivating, And I want to be a part of it. Today, you were a safe space, Welcoming, Everything I hoped you'd be from the outside. Layers began to peel, Revealing more of the real you. I'd love to create memories with you, For memories define us, And I want ours to be honest, Truthful. Your energy and cadence command respect. Yet your body language remains a tough read. This run is going to need a long stretch.

BADAGRY

The night was cold, as mothers cried, fathers lost their pride And husbands, their brides, It was the 400 th year of tears in this land, It began in the 15 th century, The white devil, Freeman Gomez searched for my people and me, Bound in chains as the tears fell from the heavens, I was a thousand miles away from home by the age of eleven, They moved us from Vlekete - slave market to Eyon slave market The chains on my neck were heavy, my stomach was hungry, and my eyes were runny Freedom was the target I was in Ijebu 5 days ago Now in Badagry getting ready to be sold To the point of no return I shall go To survive, I had to be bold The market opened every two days And we were sold for guns, mirrors, cutton and rums, The chiefs were dancing to the white devil’s tune Like they were trying to appease the gods As they dragged us to the beach to board their floating wood I was famished Who knew that we would be the last of 18 million ...

THIS IS NOT MY STORY

I stood still for 90 seconds, I had a preview of my future and a review of my past as I gazed with lost words. Memories have hidden messages you never deciphered. History is the best motivator; it keeps you inspired. It’s like we have to become adults to understand why certain things happened? Like why your mother left you outside in the cold and you hated her, not knowing she was being the butt of some other person’s joke just to provide for you. Or why your dad leaves the house early and comes back late to avoid responsibilities he can’t handle, and a wife he now hates. But what are memories that you can’t enjoy? They are the pains that give you those life lessons, which helps in understanding maturity much better. This is not my story but I just imagined it. What if you walked in on your dad as a child cheating on your mother and you never recovered still? How this lady who was skinny and had a nice ass was riding your dad became the horror flick you saw as a child, but you ne...

Vintage Boulevard

Search This Blog