Loneliness Poems
for a fatherless daughter
by Ella Sophia
you will be conscious of an absence , precisely
like a flower that blooms during autumn
a flower which perishes , soil even rotten
near the family home’s porch
a tree — cypress tree bordering a lakeside — with
its branches thinning ; and a cloudless sky cuddling
such tempestuous weather
it is all within illusion , an utter lack of attention
to make pancakes with butter and strawberry shake
standing alone in the middle of my mother’s green-tiled kitchen
......
white sparkling wine
by Ella Sophia
poor girl keeps getting haunted
deep in mind , she’ll done be screaming
all words rushed down throat
throughout left and above , nothing made sense
jostled yet stayed
pinned up against all crosses ;
she’ll be living solely in delusion
fantasy at twenties , be fearless they say ,
here in square-tinted blue room
one knees bent crying it all-out confines of
......
we are blessed by the dead : remembering old friends
by Ella Sophia
a poet who had a life one envied
writing , scattering , scribbling
on papers with words only she
can understand
paragraphs unwritten —
only learned-off by mind ;
sick , sitting still , thinking
what life really means
......
weird girl vs orange cat in the wild
by Ella Sophia
dear diary . i am turning twenty . there is nothing that i want , but to go back home .
to the village i grew up in , playing with friends , socks pasted with dirty sand . i am
not in despair , i spend my time thrifting clothes , jewelry that fits the color of my skin ,
footprints that i follow as i walk outside . i am full of sliver , tattooed on my skin , left
arm filled with bruise . i feel bad as i look at myself — how i ended up looking like a fool .
cigarettes tasting good as it never did like before , cherry wine ; i swallow it , like a glass
of water that i consume when i was seven . i see, an orange cat in the wild . i want to be
free just like it . running , feeling the breeze , sun being paired with my pale skin . i do not
know what to do . i do not want to turn twenty . i am scared . take me back to being a kid ,
simply enjoying the life that i never knew i had of me .
......
ANXIETY
by Big Blob
It is not just fear
It is a fear of the walls closing in on you,
And there is not a single soul to save you
It is a desire to retrieve the irretrievable
It is when you scream ,
An almost silent scream that no one hears
It is when you run,
But find yourself in a stationary position
And most importantly......
......
The Sailor's Wife
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
She’s one lonely soul with occasional
Nosebleed, all from the sea-salt of distant
Waves, charmed to weariness by breezes powerful enough
To unfurl umbrellas rolled behind Grandfather’s clock.
She combs her lofty hair seawards, with particles, flimsy and
Delicately grey, tiny and microscopic, storming the sea in their looseness.
She hopes to borrow the strength of the waves
And attract her wayward husband’s lost attention imprisoned
By the west and south seas.
Her letters, before they reach him on the fragrant sails
......
white sparkling wine
by Ella Sophia
poor girl keeps getting haunted
deep in mind , she’ll done be screaming
all words rushed down throat
throughout left and above , nothing made sense
jostled yet stayed
pinned up against all crosses ;
she’ll be living solely in delusion
fantasy at twenties , be fearless they say ,
here in square-tinted blue room
one knees bent crying it all-out confines of
......
bouquet of white flowers
by Ella Sophia
i never received flowers
there was none
, not even the color i like
no yellow , no pink , no purple
i never received flowers
only when i was buried
mind buried alive
body deep down at sea
......
butter orange paste
by Ella Sophia
the substance tasted sour though as if there’s one who had the chance to have a taste of it .
i can feel pretty . at times , i wonder how it would be like to live a life without worrying about how you look when people try to see your entirety behind their own eyes . i imagine a life of one with no such concern about the time they’ll spend just to blend with other bodies — moving around town . i manage to understand what fits me ; the angle that i must calculate for every picture taken by soul without comparable life , the things that i can waste my time on by doing just to feel normal like the rest .
how can i own up to every spoiled matter that consumed me when i was still living the life i used to own ? must i continue to wonder how comparing everything leads to ruining what image actually exists ? or just to pick up the threads and be whatever i was molded in to be ?
we are blessed by the dead : remembering old friends
by Ella Sophia
a poet who had a life one envied
writing , scattering , scribbling
on papers with words only she
can understand
paragraphs unwritten —
only learned-off by mind ;
sick , sitting still , thinking
what life really means
......
