Of Broken Things

Some days we're our poems,
When I start a poem with flower, 
the world is always a salt in my mouth, 
Broken is an ugly way to start a poem,

I am a bottle shattered on the walls of her feelings, 
I gathered my brokenness but who will fix me?

The God of love is too busy to look at me,
How can I resemble scary things?
The stick with which poverty is using to beat me is as huge as the world,
I am under a mango tree with a ripped fruit,
My hands are touching it but I can't pluck it,
Tell Olisa that shame is too heavy on my eyelids,
And it is bending my head to the ground.

I am gradually watching this fading moon,
I am drowning in my own tears like ostracized widow,
How do i come to the term that the cheeks from which I fetch my smiles,
Have given me her back?

Play the xylophones, let me weep for myself,
Let the music crawl through my veins and neutralizes my pains,
If they talk of broken things, Olisa do not fail to include me,
I need a hoe to harvest my heart 
and throw away,
Love was not and will never be a beautiful thing,
Olisa! come and take this rose, take this flower, love is not for the soft hearted.