Skip to main content

I Made It | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu


POEM 365: I MADE IT

all I've ever known is this, 
this seemingly endless musing.

I may make it

although there's nothing wrong with wanting it to end.
but it was cruel 
waking each day to be greeted
by the blankness of another page

why would the simplest of tasks
make me stumble over words?
Why do I have to daily defragment my mind though so exhausted?
why can't the other day be the end?

I wondered, because I never knew

never knew what's right from wrong
nor the right next rung
what to write when there's nothing left,
washing my doubts and fears
like dried blood on a club
singing loud and clear the song
I'd planned to sing when today's come

I can make it

On the seventy seventh,
I'd wave my wand and cast the spells
all rituals observed and fears expelled
one more, yet another, and another,
pretend, that all is well
so no one can tell
I got a share of wordruptcy,
and in someway somehow
survive
the days, the delays, the doubts,

I made it

though I never thought much of what it takes
to wake each day this challenge,
I certainly saw some pretty dark days 
of fair shares of heartbreaks,
of smooth sails on rough waves,
of silence's deafening shockwaves,
but the Lord has blessed me in many ways.

I made it

waddling through emptiness,
and staggering disappointments.
In the shadows of loneliness
and many blessed moments.

I made it,

to the end, crossing hopelessness,
and the constant critic in my head,
pray tell, why can't I just lay down on cloud nine
and let my pens fall silent around me
while I nap, maybe forever
floating in the wings of victory?

I made it!


Enjoyed reading? 
Please leave a comment and share with friends. Thank you!
   

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....