I Feel a Typo Way

Flooding my essence on platforms that make me feel a typo way. Feelings that what I truly treasure in my life is wrong, a mistake. The necessity of these platforms makes me shackle and tame my colourful tongue. Limit my expression to words that encapsulate not the essence of my intention. Sad future generations, the sweet authentic descriptions of my experiences are filtered away on these platforms. I feel a typo way I can’t fathom.

~ Nekoye Ommeh.

Mystic Black Bird

I know of a mystic black bird who built a nest on my kitchen counter. I was away from my dusty apartment filled with clutter. Stick, reed and leaf it built this huge cosy nest. It saw value in a place I considered a mess. I know a mystic black bird that painted melodies on the chipped cracked walls of my ghost town apartment. Chirp, flap and flight it invited its loved ones into my once lonely space. I returned, I never cleared my kitchen counter, my days are now filled with joy and laughter.

~ Nekoye Ommeh.

Nyctophilia my Rescue

I switch off the world’s lights,
Seek comfort in the dark,
Where the light of my soul twinkles like a heart’s pulse,
The light of this world blindfolds me with expectation,
Slowly my essence begins to wither,
I become like ‘all’.
Raw, untamed, traveller is who i truly am.
I am from soil, how can you measure the perfection of each particle of sand through the hour glass?
Like child, I posses unfiltered expression… that’s mankind’s kryptonite so…
I switch off the world’s lights,
seek comfort in the dark,
where the light of my soul twinkles like a heart’s pulse.
~ Nekoye Ommeh.

A Penny for a Flame

The artist has a flame within. A flame ignited by wild sparks of passion that fill the artists entire being. Sleepless nights as the artist pursues the dream of enlightening minds stuck in society’s 9-5 drill. Standing before you and me, the artist is naked as we consume melted pieces of their being. No longer zombies, bursting with life and a sense of purpose we leave the artist broken on the stage. We feel no guilt, our petty cash will fix the artist’s state of a mess.

~ Nekoye Ommeh.

Dread Shackles

Society dreads this hair, they lock we who wear it in shackles not fair. Wanna get a job? Cut that hair or at the boardroom you will never get a chair. Wanna travel? Cut that hair or at immigration they will spend long hours searching your bags, your wings might not get a chance to fly through the air. Well I don’t care! I love my locs they are symbolic that I am culture’s and freedom’s heir.

~ Nekoye Ommeh

Wailing Treasure

Where is my authentic pot of treasure? Everyone knows the pot of gold is at the end of the rainbow. But rain and shine I tirelessly inquire on the whereabouts of my authentic pot of treasure. Bow and arrow they fought for our liberation but who took possession of my authentic pot of treasure? In my dreams, I hear my treasure weep of cold winter nights in foreign lands, my treasure weeps for it wills to fulfill its purpose of adorning our African Kings and Queens, It desires to inspire our children with African philosophies and guide their life trajectories, yet it is caged in flashy places for audience thrills.

~ Nekoye Ommeh.

Unpopular Calling

The genesis was when she followed the calling. She took off the veil of popular culture – they married not her vision. She took off her sexy high heels to liberate her bare feet – they called the stomping of her feet the mad woman’s dance. She took off her make up – they questioned her self care. She began to embrace African philosophies – they said its just a phase. To this day she guards the pot bearing her authenticity fiercely. Their thoughts remain inconsequential. The genesis was when she followed the calling.

Nekoye Ommeh.

Dictator of Existence

Dear Sun, you are my dictator of Existence. You respect not the state of my depressed soul that feeds off the comfort of my small dark room. You command positivity. Uninvited, you force your way through the thick and heavy curtains of my soul. Your beaming rays thaw the ice block around my frozen heart that blocks its indulgence with existence. My blood travels once again through my fragile veins. I have strength to face existence for one more day.

Nekoye Ommeh.

Melanin Tree

Melanin Tree. Her hairs – roots that defy gravity. Her melanin skin – a bark defiant to chipping away. Her eyes – spots where branches were once obstacles washed away by the storm of her tears. Her ears – Leaves that only absorb rays of truth. Her lips – a gentle flower awaiting touch. Her nostrils – a beautiful imperfect bump on the bark, curved by a divine hand that gave it breath.

Nekoye Ommeh

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