Invasion

that long awaited disdain 
which exchanged jealousy for pride
and cast off the unfortunate
persuasion of an anger
discarding the age old tradition
of its foremothers in an attempt
to outdo its betters
had arrived.
the urgency of the current
emergency was lost on it.
purging the florid joy of which 
the atmosphere boasted
was its main priority.
interiority is not to be found
therefore in this speech here.
sensing its own inferiority
in its effort to terminate
the bliss and delight in its wake
condensing the serenity
and requesting for support
that long awaited disdain
retreated disturbed by 
the probable possibility
of a putrid checkmate stalemate.
soon joined by an
unmistakeable misfortune
who held a rather fair disposition
and equally followed by a
constipated fear
whose countenance was disrupted
disdain felt its own sense
of discerning pleasure
which was in essence
disgusted discontent.
at the front, the derobed, devested
truth soothes the Bestiality
of all sides
into submission.
fury runs around looking
for someone to blame.
problems, real problems were 
ignored. 
ignorance had prospered.
it was too late to turn back
the flow of despair
tranquillity runs around looking
for someone to blame.
once acclaimed, twice shamed
that long awaited disdain.





by Comfort Fabian Nwabia, a poet, playwright and actress and part of the youth poetry collective Words Apart.


VIDEO COMING SOON! 

Get out, get lost, you oxymoron!

Father you have been my mother
My all, my everything
My none my nothing
You’ve really gone and done it now, father.

Rather than admit and quit while you were ahead
Now I’m too tired to sleep
As you put me to bed
I’m too sad to weep
So you cry instead, father.

Father, we’ve been through so much together
Chelsea’s blues are our colour
No matter the weather
You pretended you’d be there for me.
You send me mad, father.

Father, what’s your problem
Probably, you’re mine.
But what? You’re not.
We’re not complete us too. You are
A cripple who is whole. I’m too subtle for that.
You cripple me father.

Father, at times our connection feels cut.

All clutter and clatter

What's the matter?

Can't cut it? Cut it out

Don't utter, because you'll stutter

It's a pity, now they don't glitter

Epitomising the staccato pitter, patter of my mettle

Words no longer melt and dance for you

Like butter, father.

Father, I’m not getting to the cause
I’m just spitting out the symptoms. Don’t
Doubt, rather know, those names you called me
Hurt, like the worms eating holes in my heart, father

Father, why do you hate me? I’m not a boy,
I’M NOT A TOY. No boys. But I’m close
I tried for you, rather, you just destroyed me.
It’s touching . Our relationship is like a malnourished
Tramp trying to steal a car. It’s not going to work.
So much love for you. I just want
To love you, father.

Heart-carver, how is it that you can hurt me
And be a better person still. It’s ill-advised to cross you
So I cross you in style. I have become an eternal doom
In your eyes. The gloom in your surprise,
Shows how hard it is for soldier not to die
But to love, father

Father, I wish you could see me now. Bearing
The semblance of regularity. Breaking the
Mould. Stretching, polarity raging here with
Unbalanced power of this icy inferno
You stink now or rather you smell.
Well, I think it’s time you get out
And get lost, father!

By Poet, Actress and Playwright and member of youth Poetry collective Words Apart: Comfort Nwabia