Author’s Note : Hi there! Nice to see you in 2020. 2019 was an awesome writing year. How was yours? This year I hope to write more poems. Complex, beautiful, Strange and what not. Enjoy this one.


Butterflies in my chest

Papa says, ”Open.

Open wide”

The powdery wings tickles my lungs

But still I open wide

Stretching until the sides of my mouth hurts

Nothing comes out


Butterflies in my chest

Mama says, ”Close

Close tightly”

The wing-tickling continues

Flecks of wings brush against my heart

My lips are pressed together till they turn black


I can’t let them out but I can’t keep them inside me.


The butterflies haven’t grown yet

I think

Butterflies become dragons, don’t they?

dragonfly-122811_1280Image by Pixabay


Authors Note : “Life looks more beautiful by the second. I’m getting all the things I ever wanted.” Enjoy this poem


There is a vulture in the centre of your chest

There is a vulture in the centre of your chest who wears necklaces made from Tanzanite and Gold

But here you sit, in the middle of these

streets, wearing half clothes and dried leaves
Holding out a calabash filled with your emptiness

There is a culture outside your chest; Of

bodies, spirits and doors.

Staring and calling out to you in jest

‘Sell us your soul for a loaf of bread.’


Authors Note: Hey there, I’m attempting to live my best life and it’s not easy. Whew! Enjoy this story.


They will tell you a lot of things about me. Don’t believe them .It’s all lies. They said I never finish anything emphasis on anything. My aunt once told me even if I was dying I wouldn’t finish. Look at that ! If you ask why they say all these things about me. They will come up with all this cock and bull stories of how I never finished school or how I never got round to marrying or how I let the family down and didn’t continue a legacy.
They won’t tell you the many reasons why. It was those subjects my father forced me to study. It was those courses that drove me insane and into disgrace. I hated the numbers. I hated how they looked, how they felt. I hated how they twisted and slinked away from my brain and fingers. I hated that I had to sweat before sheets of nonsense they called examination. I hated that I had to remember all of those definitions and rules and formulas. I couldn’t do it. I had to leave. I wanted to paint. I wanted my hands off pens and onto brushes to create beautiful things, to make people gasp, smile, think, laugh. I wanted to be, Freedom. So on the 7th day of my 4th semester I walked out of my class, my lecturer starring at my back and never came back. I had applied and been accepted on partial scholarship as a mentee to one of our nation’s finest painters. My angry father begrudgingly paid the rest of the fees not because he wanted to but because people like to talk. Especially those neighbours of ours. I will tell you what happened later on.
Another thing they will tell you is that I never finished is the marrying thing. These people I call family members! They just couldn’t seem to mind their own business. “Elorm ,where is your girlfriend? Who is the young lady who came to visit?” Oh I did get close though. They pushed me to the altar, to almost make a meaningless vow, except I came to my senses in time. I like tragic girls. I like the whole rich-dada ba-meets -poor-fiery-girl-telenovela kind of romance. Rough palms, blacker than black skin, quiet, thoughtful, wisdom-filled, Pure fire. That was the kind of girls my parents hated. They said She reminded them of things they didn’t want to remember. Really bad things they didn’t want to say. They said I was like a fisherman who trapped gold diggers instead of gold fishes. Can you believe this people? And that was the kind of girl I was dating. I was still working up the courage to tell her about that my problem. Then it happened, the girl they approved of came along. A girl I had offered to drive home because her brother, my friend, was having problems with his car. I shouldn’t have. I know but it was late and she didn’t want her father to find out. I am a gentleman. A fine one at that. The rest you already know. They met her when she spent the night. They pressured me. I left her at the altar. “One of Ghana’s finest artists leaves bride at altar”. They won’t tell you the real reason they wanted me to marry this girl. They won’t tell you that her father was a minister and that minister money was good money and boost in reputation. I will tell you why I didn’t marry her 1. I didn’t love her 2. The problem I had. I couldn’t farm that particular day. I was a krawa .I couldn’t give her physical warmth. Just emotional warmth. And you know how people act when children never came. They would come and destroy her. So in other words I saved her, telenovela romance style by leaving her at the altar. You see, I am a gentleman.
The other thing they will tell you will be screamed by my mother. Never mind that I had succeeded with my painting . That I was an African sensation. A Ghanaian painting icon. My father didn’t see that. He closed his eyes to the fact that I had rebelled and succeeded. And closed his ears when I said I didn’t want to work in the company. To him I would never be truly successful until I took over his legacy. We argued. We fought. He wanted to clip my wings, cut my throat, pluck my feathers and dump me in badly cooked lightsoup. Well guess what? I did something unintentionally massive. As he clenched at his chest and gasped for breath I stared and smiled then I called for help. I started a dark legacy of my own. They will tell you that I killed my father. It’s true what they say.


Author’s Note: My mind is healing. The last few weeks have been awesome. I read alongside Zukiswa Wanner, Mamle Kabu and Kweku Benneh. I also did a radio interview on Citi Fm. And Oh ! my story appears in Water Birds on the Lakeshore an anthology that will be launched in Nigeria in October.

The Art Of Being

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale
Uncross your bones- Sutures, humerus, femur
Unravel your skin- folds and folds and folds pour over
Pray for nothing-Forgiveness, repentence, life

Wash with nkuto and moisturise with saliva,
Smear it behind your ears and into the slits along the many paths of your body.

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale
Don’t use words
String the sounds together with needles
And wear it on your skin



Authors Note: The last weeks have been something else for me. My mind is breaking but I think I will be fine. Enjoy this!


This body you live in was once a cave
Filled with spiders, bats , Cobras, gin
Then your friend came and BEGGED and paid

And we drove all of them out.
For you
Tearing the legs of the spiders who refused to leave
Ripping apart the wings of bats who said this place was their home
Slitting the necks of the cobras down to their anuses because they said this cave was their own

Then we washed our hands and breaths with the gin
For what is purity without good old sin

You came in a yellow flowing cloth
You laughed and skipped as we ushered you in
You ran you fingers along the scratches on the wall, across the blood on the tiles, between the crevices in the roof, through the echoes in the mirrors

Then you stayed. Oblivious

Your suffering will come. Soon

Death is for people who love like you : A POEM

Authors Note: Hi its been a while. Yh school got very very very hectic.I’m still finishing up on my project work. Anyway enjoy.

For people who love like you- Un-Natural, Un-Real
We give onto you
Tyres. petrol. black

A love that Is and That Is Not
The draw of muscles and sweat
The warmth is a mirage
The safety, a ruse
Broken is what you are.

We need to deassemble and reassemble
Your mind, body, essence
Because I repeat, broken is what you are
Tighten your bolts and nuts and screws and whole

You may shield yourself; Hide even
But still death awaits you nonetheless


Authors Note :Dear Reader , looks like I have been slacking eerh?It’s not me ooo.It’s school and my procrastination. I promise I will more regular wai.Enjoy


I breathe to sing

I sing to live

I take a stand now

I live.

My throat is cut

Trachea is slowly filled with blood.

Guggling, a new harmony/ symphony is created.

And its raw


Pure fire.

I breathe to sing

I sing to live

I take a stand now

I die.

Voice is passion

Passion is blood

Blood is music.

I breathe to sing

I sing to live

I take a stand now

I win.