Souls on Fire

Cigarettes is a subject that often interests me and I cannot help but write about them. I don’t hate smokers infact, I envy them. This was written with no moral principle, but just a creative attempt on understanding love for smoking.

Hush, don’t speak

Succumb to me, I’ll last more than a week
I’ll make you cry
I’ll provoke you to try

Breath in this temporary solace
There’s nothing you can’t face.
I subtly usher
You see, we’re meant to be together.

In your fingers, I’m an ardent resident
Tasting your lips, hardly reluctant.
I make you turn a blind eye
To the lackluster in truths; hear the lies

I see an anomaly
In you, with love unmatched by none.
Darling, I’m a sanctuary,
Maybe a mistake too, which can’t be undone.

In this pursuit of happiness
I would still choose to be a barrage
For you and I will last forever,
When there’s nothing left to sabotage.

– a cigarette’s diary.

Picture by Mathew Macquarrie (Unsplash)



It was the 4th of May,
No the 5th,

And the sun was bright;
The grass was green;
A Sinatra song was playing,
In the radio.

She rolled in,
In a car with lights.
First they came out,
And then she followed.

The day was still bright,
The grass was still green,
And Frank was still singing,
But she was different.

Mellow words,
Almost spoken in whispers.

Actions bereft of subtlty,
And unhidden tears.

Everything happened on egg shells,
Soft and with caution.

There were moments,
When we didn’t think of yesterday,
And we couldn’t care less,
Of the next day.

In these moments,
We let out laughter,
We were unashamed to smile,
To do the things,
We use to do.

But they were just moments.

And then she left.
It hurt less than it was meant to.

Maybe, she wasn’t who,
I fell in love with,
There wasn’t that energy,
That spark,
That electricity,
That made many an idle night,
The best ones we had ever had.

She was different.

Or maybe,
That summer day,
When the sun was bright,
And the grass green,
When she walked out of,
A car with lights,

I was different.

Picture by Toimetaja Tolkebur (Unsplash)


I’ve lost count.
There one more,
Adds to what dropped before.

Someone opens the door,
And another story is told.
My shoulder,
They hold.
Listen, speak
And repeat once more.

Day break!
Empty room,
Only to realise,
Its afternoon.

Bed cover clutched,
Eyes shut,
Day wasted!

Sleep then eat,
Bus Stop;
Show face;
And dusk again.

Random words,
Empty thoughts,
Pain, Pain, Pain,
Stained shirts,
And there they,
Drop again!

Picture by Levi Xu (Unsplash)


This was written on an insomniac night, when words were trying to make sense, and the night was just too gentle, I would say. It is probably one of my first poems in my searching-for-meaning-in-life phase.

Thoughts, mostly intriguing.

They occur only during the nights especially when there’s a connection within yourself that you embrace yet suppress.

Thoughts, mostly unapologetic.
You’re wide awake, thirsty, for water or for some peace? Or maybe both. You get up to get a glass of water. Your legs fall weak. You get back to staring at the still curtains.
Thoughts, mostly hindered.
There’s a familiar tune that sings to the rhythm of your heartbeat, but you’re wide awake thinking should I dance to that?
Thoughts, mostly dangerous.
What if I didn’t know how to dance?
What if there is no rhythm?
And that simple “what if” keeps you awake till the sun shines its bright rays on your face. Perhaps a little too bright.

Picture by Megan Te Boekhor (Unsplash)



Waking up on the back seat,
Of a saturn car,
Knowing, I had some dreams left in me;
Believing this road is where,
I was meant to be;
And singing a song,
That was playing long before,
I was born;
Country roads,
With folds,
Were bringing to my destiny.

Memories were being made,
And left to be remembered,
By those who will remember them,
Long after I am dead and gone.

And just as the song ended,
And the we drove through another fold,
Destiny arrived.

She spoke without words,
And told me,
Drive and dream,
Your destination is your journey,
And maybe,
Your journey,
Is not what you thought it was meant to be.

It was just like that song,
Better, when who sung it was gone.

Picture by John Canelis (Unsplash)


This piece is the closest to my heart. I had written this with a soggy face, in a noisy crowd, in a classroom, as far as my memory goes. I was evolving and I still am. But I will not hesitate to say that I was a beautiful wallflower.

Did I mention, that I can write too when y’all talked about the jams and poems?

Did I mention, that I laugh too, looking at myself when y’all confessed that you laugh at how weird y’all are?

Did I mention, that I cry in the bathroom alone sometimes just like how you do when you feel cold?

Did I mention, that I watch the same show again and again because it feels like the first time, when you said you’re more like Ross?

Did I mention, that I binge eat as well when I have no one to talk to and make them understand my feelings when you smiled and told me that you’re okay, eating like you haven’t eaten in days?

Did I mention, that really, I’m just like y’all?
Did I mention, that I don’t really try to fit in?
I didn’t, did I?
Now, that’s just me.
A wallflower.

Picture by Rebecca Matthews (Unsplash)


The summer couldn’t have announced a more unholy arrival. Ablaze crops had turned to dust. The little that spring brought was wasted under the blistering heat. Only the rats survived. They fed on the little that remained and then ate some more.

A little town, that was dry and thirsty, stood in the periphery of vast deserts. It hosted little houses and almost all of them were built of wood.

A well that came with the promise of water was almost empty. A man in his thirties, jumped inside and then climbed back up with a full pail in hand. A big gulp of the water he had retrieved was followed with panting and cursing. Life was not easy in little towns stranded in deserts, in the middle of no-where. He jumped right back in with a second pail.

More panting followed when got back up. He looked back, beyond a green fence, towards a barren farm. The summer had been equally unkind to him as the others. ‘May the lord save us’, he bellowed.

With a pail in each hand, he walked back to his wooden house. There was a welcoming party to greet him on the porch.

“Honey, the kids need more water.” This came from a woman in her late twenties. Tall and handsome. Motherhood had added a few extra pounds to what was god’s craftsmanship. Ebony hair and sharp features up top and slender frame with curves as one mannerlessly let one’s eyes continue to scan below.

“Tell them to fetch it, themselves” he growled. He was just as tall as his woman. It seemed like he once matched her in more than just height. But time had not been as kind to him.

“Honey, you make us laugh” she retorted feigning humor. “We delicate things don’t get into a man’s business”, she further cajoled him.

He made his way up a few steps and walked right up to her as she clutched the elder of her two daughters, tightly by the hand. He said nothing and walked right inside.

She waited for a few seconds to pass and walked right in.

The two girls were poured a glass of water each from the two pails that had clumsily been placed on top of a floorboard in the pantry. The elder picked up one pail and made her way to do other things water allows you to do. Her sister followed.

He sat there atop a bed, changing into a dry shirt. The door opened. “Things have to change, William.” “Those girls need you.”

“They need their daddy to be the strong man, I remember him to be” she spoke with tears rolling down her cheeks.

“A good man is just as strong as his woman lets him be, Beth. And, you drained me of all my strength.” He sounded weak. Silence was accompanied by sobbing.

“I did what I had to. My children…” she was cut off before she could finish. “Our children were provided for by their father” he screamed.

“Their mother needn’t be whoring around for nothing.” He was now standing up and seething. Sweat trickled down his forehead. His nostrils flared and spit raining down with each word.

Silence had no company.

“I am a whore but I am also your wife and the mother of our children” she spoke back. Tears stilled filled her cheeks but they didn’t alter her stern tone.

“You are not my wife, no more.”

They were in a stand-off and no one was about to lower their gaze.

“Yes, I am different. Different to a man who vowed to stand by his woman in sickness or health.” She raised her hand to command silence as he about to protest.

“And yes my body wears the scent of another man but, if it’s only my body you made your vows to then you were never my man and I never your woman. William, I vowed loyalty and love and my soul will provide you just that till you hear me breathe. As for the scent, I wash my body twice with sand in a desert just to rid it. But you still smell it none the less.”


Even water wouldn’t or couldn’t change what was different.

Picture by Valentin Lacoste (Unsplash)


I always found love a topic too cliche to write on and lust, something that was overly interpreted, so I tried mixing both in hopes of creating something new and something that I would go back and read to my future lovers.

You call me at 3 am
And I succumb you to you, when you’re high.
Are we just friends? ‘yes’, you answer
You provoke me to confess, but you bid goodbye.

You feel my hands and call it solace,
Wine dripping from my red lip,
You want to taste you say,
Your hands are on my hips.

Honey do you listen to yourself?
When you usher me to go?
We danced under the moonlight,
You called me baby; did you know?

You choose to be an unfaithful resident
My heart now feels like a tissue
We spend the weekends on your bed,
You ask, “is that an issue?”

You meet me and mumble to yourself
“why don’t you see the lackluster in this?”
I smile, and walk away, only to be alerted by the doorbell the next day
You say, “All of you, I now miss

You’re an anomaly”, you say, “you’re unique”
I want to shut you off, but I let you in
You caress me, with a future that’s bleak
I feel a volcano, heating within.

Your touch feels like an undiscovered sanctuary
Didn’t y heart know better?
We pursue each other
Only to depart later.

I am bad at goodbyes, you say,
Your memories now feel like a barrage
This is a game we continue to play,
But will it all end today?

Picture by Evan Dennis (Unsplash)