Skip to main content

Depression, a duet by Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu and Bro Chines


DEPRESSION
(a reminder to the depressed: You're loved and you belong here)


I could tell, from the texture of her voice,
that sadness is resident in her core:
Not one word could boast of silk,
but coarse like alligator skin
crawling closer to the call of the sea

I could by merely looking at his eyes tell. 
How drowned his soul is in the ocean of pain
No matter how excited his appearance look
Pain and sadness looms over him. 
Even his eyes betrays him

But, love lives down the lane
there where we walk briskly by
In long handshakes and hugs
In the normal reply, "I'm Fine"

it's the wind saying 'you're loved and you belong here'

The eyes of those you inspire, 
Beckoning on you to move on
The silenced whose voices you echoed
would you leave them voiceless?

I know the other world is better
But you color the canvas of earth so bright
Over there, you could rest forever, true that,
but here you dot our darkness with stars

You make the world amazing
And your presence surge life into the weak
You're the colors of the rainbow. 
You fragrance like that of after the rain!

You're the aroma of dust and rain
a reminder that it shall be well
Stay, you make the world go round. 
Stay, you mean so much to us!

And if you chose to bid farewell,
on your tombstone shall be this:
you're loved and you belonged here.



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....