Skip to main content

Trapped Underground



POEM 61: TRAPPED UNDERGROUND

On the surface, he's beautiful
Glistening in the sunshine,
A touch of sun rays
Luminous and radiant
Perch on his face
He smiles
Like ice-bound crystals
Proving that life's good
But he's trapped like the LG
Under a state of a thousand thoughts.

He cannot see beyond his nose
What lies above his brows
As the light fades too fast
That shines on him
So fast he blinks
When he makes to wink
At the beautiful idea
That formed in his head.

Under the surface,
He's dark and gray.
No light makes it through
Beyond his skin all day
Hot and hard sun beams it rays
But it only knocks off the shadows
Of demons he wrestle
All that glitter and shimmer
From off the smiles he gives her
Are trapped on the surface
No depth. Just roughage.

He could hear steps approach,
Giggles and whispers
He's sure they're lovers,
Holding hands singing together.
He could hear the smiles in their voices,
As the sounds pull him down
Deeper into the darkness
Of a path he once trod
With her, his sweetness:
Memories sweet
Moments super swift
But he's trapped with a picture frame
And her name.

He cannot dip his quill in ink
It is dry and heavy.
He stares blindly
At his own shadow
Staring back at him
Unmoving and motionless
Like the weight of the world
Is laid on his head.
He can hear laughter again; 
The sound of innocence
Warms his heart, 
as the voices fade.
But the pain that takes its place
Uncloth the reminiscence.

He gasp for air with burning lungs
But he cannot breathe
He's trapped in a cellar
Howling for help, 
but silence takes his sound
And gives nothing in return,
Only dreadful silence.
Only eerie silence
Trapped in a blabbing skull.

Though trapped underground
In a bunker of himself,
In his thoughts are stories
Staged in the future
Warm and comforting
Like a duvet embrace.
Crystal beautiful
Like snowcap on mountains.
Luscious and inviting 
Like his lips.
Original and untainted
Like the tale that's never told

#365DaysOfPoetry
#Pengician
#SSA



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...

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...

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....