Not My Muse

There’s something about sadness

That makes it easy to string strong words together

You leave the base, pulling out wisdom from its dark depths.

There’s something about sadness

That makes you wax poetical

That’s why we expect a fire album from Adele as sparks of her heart hits the cold concrete floor

There’s something about sadness

The way it spills on your pages as a masterpiece

That makes you want to worship it

You dance around it

Flirting first in it shadows

Until it consumes you

There’s something about darkness that makes you angry at anything light

It soaks you up and settles you

There’s something about sadness

It finally consumes you.

Questions, Thoughts and open discussion

When I write my story
I wonder the parts I’ll leave out
Because I’m scared of being bare, naked and empty before you.

Would your large eyes scrutinize me?
Big hard palms flip through the pages
Tracing lines, hoping to find a connection?

How soon after its over would you throw me away?
Like those other journals laying useless beneath your bed.

Would I get a place on the shelf, along those other favorites?
On top? So the others know you’ve been here.

Thoughts

I love magic,
The way you charge as you run your fingers over me
Laughing loudly by your own self

I love madness
The way I get you impatient
Crazily flicking to the last to find out it’s ended.

Open Discussion

Is guyphobia really a thing? Or does having standards make you lonely?

Scribbled this poem in response to the feelings after a confusing date. Maybe I don’t know what I want yet, maybe I should chill a little and figure it all out while hoping that the right answer comes. Perfect answer for a question I’ve never dared to ask out loud.

Hope we are all having an amazing May?

Don’t forget to follow and leave a comment, I’m looking forward to reading some.

Love, Chukulee

Icy End (Chapter 3)

Chapter 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

I remember the day we beat up a nonsense man silly, for having the guts to come inside our zone to sleep with Eloho and tried to escape without paying. After dealing with him, we sold his handset for 3000 naira.

Iya Pato’s bar was our zone, our safe space. As much as competition existed, we sort of liked each other.
There was sisterhood, fellowship and hierarchy. Iya Pato was our mother superior, followed by Vero, the grand patron, wise and experienced. Kpeme, Ose and Lilian were the mamas in the game, oldest and perhaps the most frustrated.

Aunty Kpeme was the oldest of 5 children born to a professor father and a nurse mother, I know you have started wondering about what I am saying and if my medulla is not missing some vital knots. Kpeme was born and raised in America to two well to do parents. Her life’s problems started when her family came back to Nigeria to bury and pay last respects to her paternal grandfather.
Uselu, a small, tiny yet vicious village in the remotest part of Delta state, one long boat ride away from upper Oluku. It was there a wicked neighbour casted a juju spell on Kpeme which made her go missing. After several efforts by her family to find her, they had to return to America without her.
When the spell wore off, Kpeme returned back to Uselu to learn her parent had travelled back to America and her grand mother, the only contact link between them had been dead for bout 2 years.
What could a young girl do, how would she live, eat or survive if not in Lagos. The city that they claimed flowed with milk and honey. Kpeme started to work from 15 and now she was 45.

Ose and Lilian had similar stories, some would say it is greed that would make a woman leave her husband house to live on the street, others believed it a curse. Ose was once married at the early age of 13 to one of her late father’s friends. A smelly sweaty and greying matter of 75 years. It was a thing of joy to all his wives when he died of a heart attack shortly after his 76th birthday. Ose and Lillian, sister wives, bound by a common struggle. Cast offs in their homes with a vow never to return and a great need to survive. They had to escape before the burial where they would be inherited by their late husbands brother, Calistus, whose penchant for young, nubile, virgin girls knew no bounds.
Iya Pato’s place was a no judgement zone, she accepted the girls without question. She would urge the girls to broaden their minds by watching DSTV “ashewo na work, no mind wetin ‘them’ they talk” she quipped whenever she noticed extreme frustration, fatigue or discouragement creeping in.

Some days at Iya Patos were very bad. We could go a week without a single horny soul walking through the beaded curtains. They would sit in the bar with their ugly overweight girlfriends and guzzle plates of peppersoup, shouting loud at a group of twenty-two men kicking a round leather ball on the TV. Those were days of extreme frustration and dry pockets. It was mostly those days that the ‘them’ preachers seemed to come in droves, like they had an invisible alarm they used to notify them when the seed of discontentment has be down by bad business.

The Jehovah Witness’ own where too much. Despite Iya Pato’s stern warning, stiff face and angry stares. They still managed to sneak their way into the bar just as the day was fully breaking. Whichever way, they were better than the police men. The Jehovah preachers would bring tracks and pamphlets and stories, engaging in lengthy conversations and arguments. Sometimes with any unsuspecting man in the bar at that hour, but I know they came mainly for we the girls. The came in pairs, a man and a woman or a woman and a young boy, they never brought a young girl here for fear of her being corrupted.
It was the usual conversation of a better life and death for unbelievers, sprinkled with lots of argument, self righteousness and confidence. But it was the sum of these things that made life at iya Pato’s really exciting.
“Do you believe in paradise on earth? A new heaven and a new earth?” Vero would mimic them, her coarse voice sounding like the rustle of freshly emptied cement bags.

Possessed

I fought a demon and won. A tiny but highly possessive demon is what masturbation is.

Before, I had wondered why people saw the need to celebrate their overcoming this spirit. I used to think it was just about stopping. I would lift my nose high and imagine, it’s not that hard, “get your fucking hands off yourself fucker.”

But it is hard.

Hard and deadly enough for you to want to fast and pray that it leaves you alone. Masturbation possesses your thoughts, holding you smell, sight and sound captive, forcing them along the dark corridors of insatiable lust.

For me it started as exploring. Exploring my body, after all it belonged to me. A touch here, a tug, here and a pull that felt nice. Suddenly it didn’t seem so enjoyable anymore yet I couldn’t stop.

The awareness that I had previously pleasured myself was too bliss to just leave at that, I started to explore erotica. Borrowing the vast available help that could be found in the hottest parts of the internet hole.

Erotica fires your imagination, showing you how much you can achieve with the power of thinking. Magical words, conjuring sultry pictures in your head. Naked bodies being manipulated into positions that are physically impossible.

Erotica takes off from your eyes, the scales that measure evil. There you are standing alone with yourself in the wilderness of sex. Everything is here, everything can be here, you just have to imagine it

‘Kim kardarshian’, ‘Beyonce’, ‘rihanna’, the fish seller down your street, the single neighbour and even your preachers wife. 

You fall into an endless state of doism. It’s a conundrum you can almost never get out of or solve.  Even when you do. You see the outside world with a tinted view. Dissecting and stripping away pieces of real life until every thing, every person becomes a subject, imprisoned by your unquenching lust. 

This hole in your heart can cause you to bore a hole in your mattress, you life becoming an endless circle of digging deeper. Still yet it doesn’t stop there. 

You’re gone bonkers getting Boners on the highway. It’s a freeway and your only destination is the prison yard if you don’t stop yourself.

Let’s imagine for a second that one day it takes you up on a frenzy, come on, you’ve been coming. About 10 times, you’re empty and exhausted this can only lead to hell

Think of a day where there’s too much pressure but your damned mind craves it’s release so badly, you’ll hunt and hurt another man, or woman or child.

Please don’t say it’s impossible, look how far you’ve come.

Brother man, you should cry for help. So loud that it probably may be heard outside of your deep pit. Take a deep breath and get ready to scream out. You’ve been on the road down for so long.

So don’t be shy to say hi if you see a shadow pass by. It could be you only chance at salvation. 

Back to my story, I wish I could paint the picture of how far I came in just two days. 

It was all haze, dark clouds and smoke screens as I metamorphosed into the old man. Overwhelmed completely by desire that logic had no place in my head.

It needed a deliverance and a deliverance I got. So don’t ever for one second think will power is what you’ll need.

Your body fails

Your mind fails

Sometimes your spirit even fails.

Hey loves, it’s been ages since I put pen to paper or thumbs to screen to write.

Life happens, but I can’t deny, ive missed being here.

Don’t forget to hit like and drop a comment.
Chukulee