Skip to main content

New eBook: Diary of a Broken Poet by Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

This journey started four years ago. As days grew into weeks and weeks into months, I struggled with issues that make the heart bleed and tear ducts burst. Like a sojourner halfway home, the closer I get to the shore, the farther it becomes.

I found solace in poetry. I confided in my diary, joked with it, scratched at it, came on it, cried to it and vented at it broken lines that morphed into poems.
But time would not halt a while. The world, as always, go spinning by... days grew into weeks, weeks into months and months into years.
Together,
my diary and I,
bore this baby of words
and Diary of a Broken Poet is born.
This anthology is about my poetry and all of my most deepest and inner thoughts, unrefined. It has a lot of what I went through as a young teen and how I have lived through these experiences. I try to give life a meaning through these poems. Through tragedy some good can come out of it; it makes you who you are and a lot stronger and hopefully a better person, but also wiser.
Even lilies thrive in a mire.
This is to the broken heart who despite the hurt dished and pained howled at by life, stay strong and wear beauteous smiles. To the lights that can never be quenched.
I am hoping others will see things more clearly and find hope as I have. I have a little of everything in my brief earthly timeline - From pain and tragedy and triumph to family and romance and hope and everyday situations. I have had a lot of joy in my life with no regret.



http://okadabooks.com/book/about/diary_of_a_broken_poet/14377



New eBook: Diary of a Broken Poet by Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.  "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies"  "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat"  After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?"  "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...

Letter To My Son

Dear Son Try to forget that nothing waits in the dark, raise your shoulder high wave off the frea and step into that lane. Won't you rather be gone in there than stay out here playing the coward? Get up now, son everyone falls. #Pengician #SSA http://bit.ly/2haEhoj

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener  pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold  patriotis...