Cry Me a River

Cry me a river; 
just don’t let it touch my seat.
I know your tear tastes sour,
although you tell me it is sweet.

Cry me a river,
cry me a river,
I’ve cried a river over you.

Cry me a river,
or you could make it two.
I’d love to swim and play in it
and be free for once from you.

Cry me a river,
cry me a river,
I’ve cried a river over you.

Cry me a river, now;
you need not speak to me.
Sweet, dangerous psychopath,
must I be you to be?

Cry me a river,
cry me a river,
I’ve cried a river over you.

Cry me a river;
let’s drown our selves in it.
You beat me till I bled, you fool,
you crossed your heart you’d quit!

Cry me a river,
cry forever and ever,
I want to feel bigger
and better like you.

💜 “I beat you because I love you so much and when you hurt me or I think you’re about to, I find it hard to control myself” and other shits.
Don’t stay for the children or the anything. Run away (with your children). Throw the whole relationship away. 

The Lady of His Dreams


He calls for her sometimes,
whenever he closes his eyes,
wherever his body lies.
Impromptu, she takes take him away,
be it night or day,
even when he lies with bae.

She hopes he would stay one day;
she cannot get enough.
Right before he goes away,
right before he opens his eyes,
she wipes his memories of her off.

She is his mistress,
but he does not know her yet.
She has gorgeous breasts and soulful eyes,
and we all call her “Death”.

On the night of his 75th birthday,
after many years of sweet sex,
she will propose to him while he is asleep,
and, of course, he will tell her “yes”.


Love Can Now See; He Wants Everything.

"Bouquet' by an unknown artist

Love is not blind anymore;
I worry about the things he can see.
He does not want to talk some more;
he wants me in bed on three.
I consciously mask my imperfections
so he’ll choose and stay with me.
He says my boobs and butt are small;
I think about increasing them by three.
Our boat is on rough seas
but all he wants to do is flee.

He says he wants freedom, 
and she’s not me.

Requited lust.
Unrequited love.
It’s interesting how the lines between love and lust have been skewed.

Save Justitia


Let us save Justitia;
let us rescue the Lady of Justice.
They have blindfolded and enslaved her,
and taken her voice away.

They command her to strike
even when she can’t tell who is who,
who is right or wrong,
and who is innocent or guilty.

Things are not being done fairly,
but how can she tell
if she cannot see for herself?

They tell her blue is white,
and white is black,
and black is red,
and red is green.
The assigned kidnappers have
been trained to deceive her.

She holds a sword in one hand
and a scale in the other,
but bigger and sharper swords 
constantly threaten to attack her.
She feels the bigger swords’ pinch on her back,
and she takes their orders without question.

So, dispose the sword and toss the scale;
we must do it, have no fear.
We will not let evil prevail;
O̩ya will take over from here.




We Walk Different Paths

Roses are red;
violets are blue.
I mind my business,
and so should you.

Don’t compare anyone’s life to yours. You either get an ego boost or you get your ego deflated. Neither is good.


Lady Justice’s Husband


Lady Justice’s husband
is a White supremacist.
He grabs her breasts
and bites her ears,
slaps her buttocks
and wipes her tears,
tells her he loves her
and calms her fears,
and in the mornings,
she does whatever the hell
she’s asked to do.


The Wounded Healer

Her words are deep, and perhaps, far too deep, because they do not come from her heart. She writes and speaks with passion only because her words come from the pitch of her stomach. As these words travel up her torso, they avoid her heart like a plague.


“Yemoja” [Artist Unknown]

Her heart is severely wounded, so she strives to protect her words from blood stains. She chooses not to release the words that live in her heart because they are filled with pain.

She is hurt
and she is weak
and she is dying slowly,
but it’s not for her listeners who need healing to see…


Sunny Moon. Moony Sun.

She’s like the sun.
You go too close to her, and you burn.
You go too far away from her, and you freeze to death.

She’s like the moon.
You go too close to her, and you go blind in your fantasy.
You go too far away from her, and you can’t dream.

You stay right where you should be,
and she glows for you.
She’s half-sun and half-moon.
Half-sun and half-moon.




The ‘green’ dey plenty
but the ‘white’ no reach,
upon say we dey preach.

Daddy is the first “green”,
mummy is the second,
and the “white” is their son- Junior;
all his decisions are made for him.

His birth name is Purity,
but they barely call him that,
and his opinions almost never matter.
“Junior, sit down there.”
“Junior, excuse us;
go out to play with your friends.”
“Junior, the adults are talking;
you ought to walk away.”
“Junior, cover your ears.”

We say “the young shall grow”, abi?
It’s one of our favourite quotes.
Our hope is that one day,
Junior will grow to be a strong man.
A pure-in-heart woman will marry him.
They’ll give birth to a gorgeous daughter;
she’ll be very “green”,
and she’ll grow to be big and strong.
Our new flag will be “white-green-white”.

Green wouldn’t need to cover her ears;
there would be no need to.
We would have a new country;
our leaders would do what they should do.

Na only ‘white’ we dey see,
but the ‘green’ no reach,
sake of say we no rich.”

You can agree that
the above won’t happen,
and you can disagree,
but wetin be the point of the wealth,
if na only few people rich.
Wetin be the point of the wealth
if they no dey share the money-
if they no let the money reach?

If we do am make the money reach everybody, nobody go rich, but you know as e dey go now. Everybody wan rich.

Socialism means- nobody gets rich, and we’re all equal, wealth-wise. This can’t work in reality. Capitalism means- some people get rich, but some people stay poor.

Either way, some people are not going to be rich.

Does nihilism come with socialism? You know you can’t be richer than you are anyway, so what is the point of aspiring to achieve anything if you can’t get the ultimate reward (whether or not it’s gotten at the expense of others)- wealth?

Everything is designed to be fucked up in one way and another.


Push Through

This is the legend of Gbàdà,
the favourite of his former owner.

One day, his chains were removed,
and he was declared a free man.
In excitement, he began to dance,
on the broad road by the plantation,
all day, and all night,
and he hasn’t stopped since then.
He doesn’t know where home is;
he doesn’t know what home was.

He’s been released, but he’s not free yet;
he’ll be free when he stops dancing.
The blindfold’s off but he can’t see yet;
he’ll see when he stops laughing,
when he stops crying,
when he starts moving,
when he starts trying.

Maybe one day, he’ll get home,
if he doesn’t dance himself to death.
The name “Freeman” is as bad as “Ransome”;
he needs very thorough rebirth.