Skip to main content

BROKENHEARTED (episode 1)




By Ola Vincent Omotade

He promised me his future,
He promised me his dreams.
He promised to walk me down the aile
He told me he was gonna love me with his last blood
That he's gonna love me with his all.
I was already seeing myself all in his future
Oh.. poetry can't explain how much I was drunk in his love, staggering  till the last moment

I told myself I will never love anyone again

But now
"he's gone"
I don't mean dead
no no .. he his still alive
opposite my valley of HOPE

I mean he is GONE like GONE
He left me for a reason , a reason not even worth it.
my hibiscus looks so terrible in his iris now,  a flower he has once watered in his unguarded garden.

Now the thought of him and how much he promised to love me eternally kept me bound..

why did you loved him to earth when he smirked you with sweetened words of honey?
 my friends asked.

Do not blame me
 I was only loving and was drawn in the siege of Love
Should I say he never loved me?
Should I say he never meant all he said to me?
Or should I just say dey were all flirty words just to keep me for himself?
oh.!!! how much am broken
 not just broken in heart.. but dissolved in thoughts.


This is a letter not just from a broken heart💔💔 but from a BROKEN TRUST!!!😔😫😩☹☹

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

WHY DO TEARS FOREVER FLOW?

By Ola Vincent Omotade As I lay on my bed this morning, with sunlight streaming through the window, a gentle breeze blew the flimsy white curtain and I saw the sky turn blue.. OH! its a new day I said. Just as I took a step to go get my pink hard smoker's brush and a Dabur-herbal toothpaste to spray on my brush, I heard someone crying in terribleness. I was weak in my spirit and all I did was to rest on my cushion, threw the brush on my carved mahogany bench and these were words that interfered with my heart. I realized coming to this earth, newly birth nothing in my hand I bring. simply naked to the earth I come, looking for dress in tearsa Oh for us We came hale and hearty, But yet tears trooped out from our eyes, the little helpless baby. Looking for ways to support living, we sow in tears but at times reap in joy, not always every time though. Going through the nooks and crannies of pains in craft works, handiworks and education (disciplined with tear...

SALEWA

By Jonathan Oladeji I don’t know how many people have met Salewa before, even if it is not the Salewa I am talking about. What can you say is common about every Salewa? It’s usually their room mates that can testify better. I met Salewa in my 200 level and she told me her name was Sally. I stared at her for hours before managing to pick a seat behind her in the then AUD 2 on the Great Ife campus. Salewa is the typical tall, slim, dark and beautiful (TSDB) girl. I approached with all caution because I wanted to make a good impression. Even though I am not much of a fashionista, I could see her wrist bracelet, earrings and neck-piece were a complete set out of an A-Class boutique. Salewa was not the bend-down select kind of girl. I wanted to break out of that circle too by all means. We talked awkwardly at first, then kicked off with a bit of more fashion related gist as I noticed that was all she wanted to talk about. I actually wanted to talk about drawing boards and painting c...

ÌGBÀ ÈWE (CHILDHOOD DAYS)

By Teslim Opemipo Let our mothers come like harmattan haze and swear by the sacrality of ògún if the roof lying above their fathers' house has never been stoned by a boy in love to walk them out for an evening talk. Let our fathers come like a windy rain and swear by the simplicity of òsun if the path that leads to the village stream has never danced to serenades sang by their soles in chase of maidens with braids so long. Let the elders come like a mid-year harvest and swear by the tranquility of the moon if they've not once tasted the bliss of childhood fermented with the morals of moonlight tales. In our village, childhood is made of water; kinsmen, remember, water is brewed with life and life is the laughter moulded on our lips when we gambol from rivers to trees and to fields painted in the colours of hopping grasses. Brethren, if you hear an elder saying: growing up kills laughter and joy, do not giggle for they once like us tasted the bliss o...