WELCOME TO POETRY INVOICE

A message for the wise If death is a man That breathes and eat Like every other man Then I will kill him before his death And steal his record So that I will not die forever Then the world will see me as a hero Then I will become a god Then I will be worship But death refuses to be a man How do I safe myself From death? # written Iam_pentalk

TRILOGY Spiritual Songs : Out Of Bound: [For people living out of revelation] This world is coming to an end,soon; Just watch how it cloud your eyes into a dirge song-- & how it could befall on your chest like a wall broken for autumn, Because soon: you will feel not your body again, You will run into houses of no windows, & all you could find is a symbol of darkness, Speaking to you in white language-- But beware,you cannot understand the white language; When your brain is off from your head. Eyes would be open wider, than socket of a god's skin, You will be taught how to wear pain & drink your sisterhood blood too, Everything would become too busy to control, Because this is not the normal sense of life. Look, that day,a man will taste your body, If you resist to poison your eyes like twin shadows-- Or shades of destructive; Blades blasted on your funeral. Your poem would become too wet to read again, Your home would carry the body of a l

SHE IS ONLY 14 . . These words are broken I lost my soul, scribbling them . I do not know when the world Begin to trade a girl child for bloodless currencies When was it aired in the radio, To make mothers from babies? When was it signed into our constitutions To stop chasing women- but their children? When did it all begin? When? When? When? . How do you hold your bodies together Knowing you've held a future in your tongue Passing it down the throat of woundes glories? How do you look at nature with a clear conscience Knowing you just buried a part of her alive? . When do men start to feed on curses for blessing? . Why pluck the stars in her sky To give your lust a lightening? She's only 14- a tree without branches Why seal your conscience like your fathers Who woo women to bury them in their eyes? She's only 14- a music with incomplete lyrics Why force yourself to sing her song, when your heart doesn't even foll

Still Born [For him] We are strangers of diverse tongues, Bearing the tone of dark poems, When our shadows are epitome of anger, Walking wider than the range of sex waters. There's a problem hung inside our bones: It's a sloppy anthem of calculus voices, Running into rivers of a paradoxical skin. That time,we were born of agrophobia, When our eyes were still finding bulbs, To hold like lightning & a lyric of opera Which freshen the sour in our shattered hearts--   Look into the body of a boy: -he said his name is a little broken ant -he said he lives like a bullet wet with water -he said he lives like a home broken into socket -he said his teeth is a rainbow of 365 doors -he said his mother wears another god's skin in a white land -he said his sister is a song that has 4 eyes -he said his father's name is always burning inside his stomach Because there's clashing of skins in a parallel storms, Leading into bitterness of dead sea. Remember,

ELEMENTS OF WRITING BY POET IGE Elements of writing, picking each word in the topic one after the other, *elements* simply means composition, thus, we can rephrase the topic as *The composition in writing* [11/19, 8:39 PM] Ige: *writing* in my own words, is the process of penning down a thought, whatever must be written down must have passed through the corridor of the brain before the ink will exhibit it [11/19, 8:39 PM] Ige: Now, attributing that to Literature (poetry in particular) [11/19, 8:40 PM] Ige: Literature- is from the word 'literate' ability to write and read [11/19, 8:41 PM] Ige: However, poetry in my definition is the expression of emotion [11/19, 8:41 PM] Ige: Idea, concept [11/19, 8:41 PM] Ige: In a *unique* way [11/19, 8:41 PM] Ige: What makes poetry to differ from other genres of Literature is the uniqueness [11/19, 8:43 PM] Ige: As a poet, you are synonymous to a blacksmith, we don't coin cutlass or knife but we coin *words* [11/19, 8:45 PM] I

ON YOUR WAY HOME . . This path is filled with the carcass of bodies with desolate cities There are voices buried on its soil Of boys who live with broken shadows To quench the fire on their tongue And of girls who fold the moon in their breast To carry the beauty of the night . On this path, you don’t ask men for direction Some are living beings in dead bodies- life made them who they are . Home are not found in maps We trace our ways through the echoes of our mother’s voice Maps are sometimes wanderers They are images painted by men with stolen dreams . On your way home -you’ll find boys chewing their pains by carrying their mothers on their head -some people must die before they live, some must live before they die- but not all would see their home again -there would be maidens who became dusty lanes for searching for love outside their heart -you’ll see dead memories fighting to stay alive -some battles must be lost to be won -you’ll